


Divided

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 96,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, the news of Felix and Locus’ departure from Chorus makes its way to the tiny planet’s last lines of defense. The information gives the forces a renewed hope, a new directive, and… a new trap to stumble into. Scattered, they are forced to hold their own in a very unforgiving world. [Canon divergence from Season 13]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Armonia

**Author's Note:**

> Just. Be cautious about reading anything I write that tries to be a multichapter fic. They make it far more glaringly obvious that I don’t know what I’m really doing. Apologies, all.

He blinked away the haze in his sights. It hurt, but it wasn’t anything more than he had been trained for, that he hadn’t felt before. And if anything, the pull and surge of the neural implants was disturbingly routine in many ways. 

“Just a moment more,” Doctor Grey called from behind him. “Wow, these are incredibly advanced. It’s hard to even resist looking into them more thoroughly.”

“Well, as long as they’re still connected to my brainstem, I’m hoping you find the strength,” Wash replied dryly. 

“As long as you’re more handy with them intact!” she sung back before roughly slapping her hand on Wash’s shoulder. “Ha, I’m joking. You’re safe with me, silly. And also, you’re done.”

Humming in response, Washington gathered himself and raised out of the chair, rotating his shoulders. It’d been a long examination, but hopefully everything had checked out. Locus had given him more than a fair share of lumps in the assault on the radio tower. 

Agent Washington had quite the inspiration for returning the favor sooner than later. 

“Thank you, Doctor Grey,” he said formally. He would have tried to work up the energy to smile at her, but the long hours he’d put into instructing the Chorus troops made that feel like a difficult measure.

Not that she would have needed it. The tiny doctor had smiles in spades. Her bright white teeth shown back at him as she put her hands on her hips. “No, thank _you_ , Agent Washington! You mustn’t underestimate what an honor it is to practice on our planet’s greatest heroes!”

Swallowing dryly, the former Freelancer looked toward the door, reaching for his discarded helmet. “Yes, well. Let’s hope that we actually earn that title, Doctor.”

The sound of an explosion could not have been more convenient if Wash had set a grenade himself. 

Cursing under his breath, he latched the helmet on and grabbed for his gun. “Starting with cleaning up whatever mess my men started _this_ time,” he hissed. Without any hesitation, he began to run out of Emily’s quarters, only looking over his shoulder to call back, “You might need to be on standby!” 

“Oh no worries! I’m well equipped for a Code Caboose!” she shrilled back in return.

“No,” Wash groaned to himself, “No one’s ever _really_ prepared for a Code Caboose, Doctor Grey.” He would know, he had spent a few years with him at that point.

He had spent a few years with _all_ of the Reds and Blues -- sometimes friendly, sometimes not. And yet they still managed to surprise him almost daily. Now with Carolina and Church back in their ranks, Wash found that he never knew what to expect. 

Except for bickering. That was just a given.

“When you say ‘alien artifact’ it translates to ‘deactivated’, which doesn’t get transported. When you say ‘high powered laser gun and assault rifle’ that translates into _handle with extreme caution_ , how do you not understand that distinction yet?”

“It’s not a distinction, Simmons, it’s a basic level of comprehension. And basic level of comprehension, if you haven’t noticed, is a few levels above what Caboose is capable of.”

“Hello! Am I talking now?”

“NO.”

“Oh, well, alright then. I will go back to shooting --”

“ _Shut up, Caboose.”_

“That’s why I’m not yelling at Caboose, Grif! I’m yelling at Donut.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You gave the gun to Caboose!”

“Come on now, guys. I think we’re all observant enough to know that I can’t be responsible for handling _every_ man.”

“Bow chicka-- you know what. Forget it. I’m zoning out now because every time Donut’s involved with my phrase it’s predictably wrong. I don’t even know why I waste it around you guys.”

Slowing his run, Wash sighed, his grip on his rifle loosening as he entered the storage garage the Reds and Blues had commadered beneath Central Command. Predictably, the misfit soldiers almost immediately refocused on him.

Wash sighed, shoulders sagging. “Who got shot?”

“Hello, Agent Washington!”

Groaning, Washington rubbed his visor rather uselessly and slowly walked past the other brightly glad soldiers to make his way to Caboose, still laying on the floor with his bloodied boot off. “I suppose in some way this is poetic justice,” he muttered.

“No, Agent Washington, this doesn’t even rhyme,” Caboose said, rolling his head toward Wash as the Freelancer knelt beside him. 

“Ho ho, I can lay you down some sick rhymes right now,” Tucker cooed from behind Grif and Simmons’ duo. He began to lean forward, arms out but Wash raised his hand to halt him before he ever got started. “Ah, man.”

“Later, Tucker,” Wash humored as he reached into his back pouch, grateful that time with Caboose had him prepared for weapon discharges. “It doesn’t look that bad. Do you want the blue gaze, Caboose?”

_“That would be awesome!!!”_

“I hope you carry more than that into the battlefield, Washington,” Sarge’s gruff voice called as he stepped past his men. “I would bleed out before the enemy and my ancestors before I ever thought of utilizing such garish field equipment!”

“Oh, please,” Grif grunted.

“No. I would hope you all carried your own preparations,” Wash said without so much as looking over his shoulder at them. “Sarge, Tucker, it’s good to see you back in Armonia. And unusual. Did everything go well with Carolina?” _Or did she send you back packing?_ goes unsaid.

“Oh, that’s right. Wash! We’re looking for you!” Tucker said, slapping his hands together. 

“You are?” Wash asked. “You didn’t even leave the garage. Why am I not surprised.”

“Hey, now you’re found. As far as I can see, that’s an accomplished objective,” Simmons snapped back. 

“ _Awesome!_ Go team! Great job everyone!” Donut called out, elated. 

“Oh, now it’s cake time?” Caboose shifted to jump up until Wash grabbed his arm and, as gently as he could while still keeping the excitable soldier’s attention, pulled him back to a sitting position. 

“Private Donut!” Sarge howled, “There will be no orders of celebration until every last one of our enemies are lying in pools of their own blood, face down in the battlefield!”

Cutting the gauze, Washington eased Caboose’s arm around his shoulders and helped him up. He turned and looked to the other Reds and Blues. “Okay, you’ve officially got my attention. Why were you looking for me?” 

“Well, not to get too excited,” Tucker began, his toothy grin visible even past his bright visor. “But Carolina, Doyle, and Kimball need you. We took a base and got some info. _Turns out_ Felix and Locus aren’t on Chorus anymore.”

Wash felt his face drop. “What?”

“The cowards turned and ran!” Sarge hackled. 

“Yeah, dude, they need you in the war room!” Tucker continued, nearly bouncing with energy. “We’re going to try and win this _now!”_

* * *

Vanessa Kimball was not an easy woman to address normally. Doyle couldn’t help but feel that receiving this news was really the first time since their armies’ union that they even _approached_ being on the same level. 

“The pirates are still a problem,” Kimball reminded him lowly. “And with that equipment -- if they’re still manufacturing it even without Felix and Locus -- we have more than enough of a problem on our hands.” 

“Yes, but _without_ centralized leadership and _without_ Felix and Locus, our forces -- under the command of Agent Carolina and the Reds and Blues, of course,” he noted with a look to the fully armored Freelander in their midst, “--have proven to be more than adequate in handling these barbarians!”

“In small numbers.”

Jumping slightly in surprise, Doyle quickly turned on his heels to watch as Agent Washington entered the premises. 

“Oh, good! Agent Washington,” Doyle greeted, his nervous laugh just skating beneath the level of obvious. “So glad you could join us!”

The larger of the Freelancers nodded. “Doyle,” his head jerking toward the women present, “Kimball... Carolina. Church, I’m assuming.”

“Here, asshole,” Church responded, a dim glow from Carolina’s shoulder emerging. “But busy.”

“Charming,” Wash returned flatly.

“Epsilon is running correspondence between us and the outpost my men are holding,” Carolina explained more thoroughly. “He’s feeling a bit stretched thin. And cranky.”

“Hey, I’m fine. Didn’t I say I’m fine? I told you I’m fine.”

Wash crossed his arms expectantly, making Doyle feel relieved that at least one of the present leaders was more familiar with the Federal Army’s perspective on issues. And seemed less comfortable with the persistent presence of AI and stranger circumstances than the rest of the PFL army.

“Tucker told me that you think Felix and Locus are off Chorus,” Wash said. “Do we know why?”

“No, but neither do their men,” Carolina answered. “Believe me. We’ve had our share of getting them to talk.”

“Not to mention the tactics used at the last several outposts we’ve taken have been _lacking_ , among other noticeable differences,” Kimball added. “My soldiers have reported several times coming across half assembled bases in the last raids.”

“And just from experience, I couldn’t imagine Locus allowing such performance within his own ranks,” Doyle chipped in. 

“Felix only cares about money,” Kimball continued darkly. “If they weren’t about to get a paycheck...”

“Maybe that would have been the case _before_ we bruised their egos,” Washington reasoned, “but now? Now it is a matter of reputation and pride. And even for Felix that’s going to mean far more than any money Hargrove is pulling from them.”

“But they _are_ gone,” Carolina spoke up. “We’re certain of it.”

“We just don’t know for how long,” Church spoke, finally showing up at full glow. “Listen, we’ve got these remaining scientists and pirates on the run. Their weapons are cool, but they don’t know their butts from holes in the ground right now. And their asshole mercenaries are nowhere to be found.”

Doyle turned more fully to Washington, his time to contribute fully upon them. “Agent Washington, the majority -- if not _all_ \-- of the remaining forces of enemies are gathered at the last of the radio jammers across Chorus. Even with the return of our _former_ confidantes, should we take that outpost and control it again--”

Wash’s face tilted back, realization dawning. “We can send out signals into UNSC territory again. Contact the authorities.”

“We could end this war and save Chorus,” Kimball agreed. “But... we would need a full siege. And we would need to act _now._ And I’m not certain we’re prepared.”

“Look, there’s lots of ifs here,” Church spoke up. “There’s a lot, and to be honest, we might lose a few good people out there. But if we can take this radio jammer, I _personally_ can see to it that the entire UNSC knows about everything -- about Chorus, about the mercs, and about Charon. About _Hargrove._ And it’ll be a lot faster and a lot less deadly than if we sit around on our butts and wait for those bastards to come back and act first.”

“Of... course we will still protect Armonia with a small infantry,” Doyle reminded them.

Kimball visibly bristled even in her armor. “Of course _you_ would,” she gritted between her teeth.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Washington urged. “But, Kimball, if you will lead the troops you will also have the both of us and our men backing you. And we’ll do everything we can to minimize damages.”

Slowly, the tan and blue general nodded, seemingly finding the information acceptable. 

“Alright. Alright. We can do this.”

Doyle breathed with relief. Of course they could. 

* * *

"And finally we will assert our position as undeniable and unavoidable victors in this conflict when we aim our shotguns at the belly of the enemy and leave them with a reminder of their defeat! And by reminder I mean an impressive amount of lead filling those bellies!” 

“Oh my god, how much longer can he go on with this?” Tucker asked, rounding to Grif, Simmons, and Donut. “It’s been hours.”

“It’s been more like _minutes_ ,” Simmons corrected dryly. 

“But yeah, he can go on for hours,” Grif countered. “I suggest learning to fall asleep in your helmet with the shield up. It’s done wonders for me over the years.”

Sarge ground his teeth. “Grif! Are you paying attention to these battle directives?”

“Directives?” Grif asked, facing the newly appointed Colonel. “Uh, if you happened to be giving directives, maybe. But all you’re doing is saying what you _usually_ say when you talk to us. So no.”

“You wouldn’t be listening even if they _were_ orders, Grif,” Simmons snarked.

“No, you’re right, Simmons. I wouldn’t be. But since I _know_ how much you pay attention, why don’t you tell me what Sarge was saying.”

“I can tell you what Sarge was saying!” Simmons bristled. “It uh. Was an inspiring and stirring speech about the Red -- I mean Chorus army. And how. Um.”

Grif stared at Simmons long enough to make the maroon space marine fidget. “Literal _years_ of listening to his tantrums and you can’t even fake your way through this? Really, Simmons? Years of ass kissing down the drain--”

“Simmons!” Sarge interrupted. “Is it true you haven’t been paying attention!?”

“Well. I mean. I haven’t _not_ been. It’s just that there’s a lot to think about in these dire times, Sir.”

“Things that don’t include your speeches,” Grif surmised dryly. 

Sarge sputtered, cursing that the Generals had demanded a common law for all military personnel to unload weapons within the Central Command, and also Grif, before turning toward the last of his men. “Donut! Tell Grif and Simmons what they just missed!”

“Oh, man, you guys! You just missed this _awesome_ speech Sarge gave!” Donut responded quickly. Then, for a beat, he took a breath.

“ _And_ , Numbnuts?” Grif demanded.

“He pointed out a major flaw in the pirates’ armor. They really _don’t_ articulate well with the midriff.”

“Dammit, Donut.”

“And then he talked about--”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

Sarge gripped his shotgun ever tighter. “Absolute insubordination! Nothing makes your false promotions more glaringly false than your inability to take the chain of command seriously!”

“Pay attention, old man, the only one given a false promotion here was the one who demanded it in exchange for helping this planet,” Grif ground out.

“Hey, guys, when was I promoted?” Donut asked in earnest. 

“You weren’t, shut up,” Grif ordered.

“This is exactly what I mean! You don’t give orders, Grif!” Sarge bellowed. “I do! And you’re insistence on not listening and giving your own orders is confusing Donut!”

“Well, that’s not wrong,” Donut agreed. “I _am_ confused.”

Before another word could be shouted, Washington cleared his throat, drawing the Red’s attention to his entrance. 

“Oh, thank god,” Tucker breathed from the corner of the garage he and Caboose had retreated to. “I wasn’t going to stand another minute of _All in the Famliy_.” His head tilted toward Caboose. “And I’m pretty sure Caboose wasn’t able to hear himself talk anymore. We had only minutes before his brain didn’t realize it was still working and cut off vital systems.”

“What’s the news, Wash?” Simmons asked.

“Simmons!” Sarge cried out. “Now you’re doing it too? Oh what will become of the Red Army?”

Washington looked at them for only an instant before turning toward Tucker and Caboose. “Kimball is leading as many troops as we can spare to the coordinates you two and Carolina uncovered from the last raid. Hopefully by taking the main tower, Epsilon will be able to transmit off planet and contact the UNSC past Charon’s blockade. Right now Kimball is gathering her soldiers and prepping for transport. _We_ should get ready to charge with them. We’ve dealt with these guys enough that we’ll be able to curb the battle into our favor with minimum damage.”

“Right,” Tucker responded, brandishing his sword with a wicked grin for extra effect.

“Yes! Okay good. What should I do, Agent Washington?” Caboose asked eagerly.

“Caboose, you’re staying by me at all times,” Washington responded immediately. “Come on, Tucker, we need to get ourselves and Caboose ready.”

“Ugh, alright,” Tucker said, resigned, before grabbing Caboose’s elbow and leading him toward their barracks. 

Wash stepped after them before pausing, turning back to Sarge. “Sarge. Uh. Prep your men as well. I guess.”

“Wash. _Why?”_ Grif groaned.

“Absolutely,” Sarge responded before turning once more. “Grif, you’re slouching!”

* * *

Donut wasn’t exactly familiar with the transportation cubes -- he probably had the least experience of his friends. But he knew they weren’t exactly a pleasant form of transport. 

And the more people the worse the pull was supposed to be. When it was the ten of them, the cube had felt like their insides had been turned in and out before returned right back inside. _Not_ the best feeling ever.

So as the near hundred of them gathered -- Red, Blue, Fed, New -- as garish and unpresentable as their clashing colors might’ve been, Donut had to wonder if it wasn’t the impending hurdle that was making him feel so uncomfortable rather than the Federal Army’s bland stripe patterns.

Kimball was shouting orders, with some soldiers -- the News the guys had been training in particular -- in full attention. The Federal soldiers... less enthused. And for the second time that day, Donut wondered if he should have paid more attention.

“Are you ready?”

“AH!” Donut shouted, turning quickly only to be met by Wash. “Oh _hi,_ Wash! Yeah, I’m ready. I’m just not a big fan of these cube thingies. I mean. They completely waste your diet, you know? I don’t watch my carbs just to have my stomach turned inside out on them!”

“Yeah, I’m not a fan either,” Washington admitted. “But they’re efficient. And so far, they’ve been safe.”

“It’s just that popping noise, you know?” Donut continued. “It’s like an explosion in your face. And I’ve had enough of those.”

The Freelancer agent didn’t quite flinch, but he shifted his weight heavily, nodding darkly. 

“Oops, sorry!” Donut responded brightly. “I was just keeping up conversation--” 

“At the ready!” Kimball shouted over the soldiers, everyone forming tighter lines. 

Five cubes lifted in the air. 

“Here comes the boom,” Donut groaned.

“NOW!” Kimball ordered.

Donut tensed for the vacuum of energy to yank at them. Instead he was met with a fiery steam that blasted through the ranks. He hardly took a breath to scream when he felt the weight of Washington’s armor knocking into him, blasting them into the distant wall together. 

Not far off, Lopez’s yelps in Spanish were heard, the crashing of the pending vehicles bursting around them. Soldiers yelled.

Donut’s visor cracked just before he was lifted and carried, half dragged, from the inferno. By the time he adjusted to the crack in his vision, he could see that half the building was in flames... half was gone -- like a surreal painting, the building was cut in half, sliced with the brick and mortar shaved from the very streets. 

“Donut! Donut!” Washington laid him out on the pavement. “Status, soldier!”

“Ow?” Donut responded, eyes locked less on Wash than on the flaming robot nearing them, shouting in Spanish before turning to look at the destroyed garage. 

“Oh god,” Wash muttered, turning to look at the building. “What the _fuck_ just happened?”

Donut hoped it wasn’t a real question, because he was quite sure none of them knew. 


	2. Crash Site Alpha

The teleportation cubes had been standard for their group since the campaign had started, and Tucker, Carolina, and Sarge had hardly gone a week without one’s use since then. Church had commented before about how they were tricky, but Tucker found, for the most part, that they were just really fucking annoying. And painful.

But the half second slip was... _wrong_ feeling that time around. 

While nausea wasn’t uncommon when they used the cubes, the moments before the flash of teleportation was filled with heat and variable pull. Not the one directional twist as they slipped from one space to their new coordinates but like a third arm reached through and played tug-of-war with him. 

When his feet were returned to solid ground, Tucker felt the ringing of his ears from to tip of his nose to his knees. It wasn’t nausea, it was like he had been stretched -- like taffy. He buckled and vomited before sight even returned to his eyes.

The vertigo was some of the most intense he had ever felt -- seeing double, triple even in his vision. And then the noise returned, muffled over the ringing.

There was gunfire.

Struggling, Tucker groped the rocks around his head, trying to find something solid to focus on as the rounds of ammunition became louder and louder. He turned over onto his elbows and knees, and suddenly, _very_ quickly, everything became upright again. And the fall of soldiers around him jolted him back into reality.

They were supposed to have landed a hundred yards out from the spire where the pirates had holed out and then swiftly reorganize into charging battalions before starting the attack before entering the base’s sensors. It was supposed to be a safe landing.

Not only did Tucker not see any sign of the spire or their jungle cover... they were surrounded. And they were losing soldiers -- _fast.  
_

“What the fuck!” Tucker cried out, still disoriented. “Cover! Find cover damn it!” he ordered, grabbing the Federal clad soldier beside him and thrusting himself and the soldier behind the cliff facing. 

There was hardly time to think -- so much screaming and gunfire at once. 

Tucker tried to catch his breath, holding the soldier back. “What happened -- what the fuck happened! Where is everyone -- is this everyone?”

Even with only a peripheral glance of the area, Tucker couldn’t see any more than twenty of the Chorus soldiers -- alive or not -- and none of his own. He gritted his teeth.

This wasn’t right.

“Sir, they were waiting for us!” the federal soldier said beside him. 

“What?” Tucker asked, whipping his head toward the younger man. “What do you mean!?”

Even under the white armor, the man seemed shell shocked. “The second the slip opened they were firing. They had higher grounds. I-I don’t even think we’re in the right spot. Not everyone was here, not everyone showed up at the same time. I-I don’t remember the cubes working that way before.”

Tucker took in the information, his head pounding with it, before looking out into the battlefield. More soldiers dropped and finally Tucker saw what few of their group were standing were behind a thinning rock facing. 

Two tan. One blue. 

“Caboose!” Tucker yelled over the radio. 

Immediately, the blue clad soldier turned in the opposite direction. “Tucker!?” 

“Wrong way, idiot!” Tucker snapped. 

“Tucker, Tucker! Where is Agent Washington!? I’m supposed to stay by Agent Washington! He told me--”

“Caboose, calm down!” Tucker ordered. “I’m trying to get us out of here alive--”

“If I don’t follow orders how am I supposed to get cookies as a reward--”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tucker growled, flinching back as a bullet ricocheted off the rock facing just by his head. He hunkered down, following the angle to the opposing rock facing before backing himself and the Federal soldier further into their crevice. He glanced back just as the three Chorus soldiers’ cover began to crumble under more fire. He recognized the bright accents to the tan armor. “Palomo! Jensen!”

“Yessir!” they responded immediately after a surprised yelp from the rock cracking.

“Tell Captain Caboose that Freckles needs to look for friends to help on the cliff right in front of you!” Tucker ordered.

“But--”

“Now, Lieutenants!” 

Tucker looked over his shoulder to the federal soldier just as the man began to heave, his hands grasping for the latches to his helmet. Immediately, Tucker bristled, smacking the boy’s hands down from his helmet. 

“Sir--”

“What are you? A fucking moron!?” Tucker demanded hotly. “Have you never seen a movie!? You do _not_ take your helmet off in a battlefield!”

“I’m about to be sick, Sir--”

“Better sick in your helmet than dead. For fuck’s sake,” Tucker growled before finally _looking_ at the soldier before him. At the bright red splatters across the left side of his armor. He sucked in a deep breath. “What’s our name?”

“A-Aleksandr Golov.”

“Okay, right. Golov -- don’t take your helmet off. I mean goddamn dude. But I’m going to get you out of here,” Tucker promised. 

“HELLO!”

There were three shots from a familiar assault rifle. Then, for the first time since arriving... _silence._

Golov looked to Tucker in the silence, the sounds of their breathing filling the canyon crevice. Then, there was a moan of pain, echoing down from the canyon top. 

Tucker looked across the clearing to see Caboose squat back down beside Palomo and Jensen, clutching Freckles tightly. 

“Um. Not my fault,” Caboose muttered over the radio. 

“Freckles?” Tucker called over the radio.

“Two enemy targets: eliminated. One enemy target: incapacitated.”

Feeling his jaw clench, Tucker narrowed his eyes. He shouldered his rifle and brandished his sword. “We’ll see about that,” he hissed. “Golov?”

“Yessir?”

“Cover me.”

He knew that the second he left cover, that single “incapacitated” soldier could fire off a lucky shot, no matter how well Freckles’ aim might have been. He knew this bullrush was dumb. But he also knew that there were five of them standing and at least twenty of them on the canyon floor. 

It was as if he could only see the canyon slope, only see the cliff side before him, and then only the three slumped over grey armors before him. One of them moving. 

“Captain Tucker!?” his radio whispered, but Tucker couldn’t really hear it. He just walked forward, staring at the man who slowly drug himself, bleeding from his leg, toward the dropped sniper rifle. 

“You... _you fucker_ ,” Tucker hissed, his hands shaking. “You just... sat up here. You just picked them off. Picked us off -- that’s all you assholes have done this whole time and you just...” 

Tucker couldn’t even gather his thoughts. It was all nonsense and still he kept staring, kept trying to process. 

It was a trap. _It was a trap and they fell for it._

He kicked the sniper rifle further down from the pirate, making the mercenary drop his head and swear. 

Disgusted, Tucker turned to face the cliffs only to find Caboose, Jensen, Golov, and Palomo already there, the latter three looking at the pirates. 

“It... it was only three of them?” Jensen whispered, voice weak. 

Golov and Palomo stepped closer while Tucker began the walk down. “Yeah,” the aqua captain replied, throat dry, “Yeah, Jensen. It was only three of them.” In the back of his head he could remember Zachary Miller, _quality over quantity._ “Have we already checked everyone in the field.”

“Yeah,” Palomo said, coming back. “It’s... it’s just us, Sir.”

“Agent Washington’s not here,” Caboose said, looking skittishly toward Tucker. “Freckles said he wasn’t.”

“What the fuck _happened!?”_ Tucker growled, rubbing his free hand over his helmet. He was beginning to feel shaky. “Is this even the right place?”

“We’ve been here before.”

Tucker blinked before looking to Caboose. “What?”

Caboose waved Freckles around the canyon. “Tucker! Don’t you remember!? We’ve been here! It’s the place with ships.”

“What!?” Tucker snapped, whipping around to look further down the canyon, toward the sky. Sure enough, the familiar active spire hung over the distance. Desert surrounded them. “This... this isn’t right! We’re on the complete other side of the planet! Why did we arrive at Crash Site Alpha!? Why were they ready for us -- how did they make this trap!?”

They looked to each other.

Then the silence was broken by a static filled crackle from the pirates. Each of the Chorus soldiers and the remaining black armored soldier whipped toward the sound. 

“Romeo-Sierra-Tango this is Mike-Lima-Alfa, report in status of the package. Romeo-Sierra-Tango--”

“Oh fuck, the base is active--” Tucker said just before noticing the pirate reaching for his partner’s radio. “Shit someone stop--”

The pop of the gun sounded so loudly, Tucker temporarily forgot to brace himself and not jump. His entire body shook with the surprise before he looked over to Golov -- still splattered in friendly blood. 

The soldier took a shaky breath, head lowered, and holstered his pistol. 

Tucker studied the soldier before hearing someone step up beside him. He didn’t even have to look to know it was Palomo. 

“Um. Captain?” his soldier asked hesitantly, “What do we do? It’s just the five of us... and there has to be more pirates nearby and...”

Closing his eyes, Tucker cursed, then turned to the others. “Everyone check for supplies. Grab everything we can carry. There should be a lot of equipment, and if we’re lucky there’s some vehicles among this shipyard. Grab anything important looking, meet back here fast. We’re racing going East and getting the fuck out of here. That work for everyone?”

“Yessir.”

Caboose fidgeted as the others took off.

“ _What,_ Caboose?” Tucker grunted. “We don’t have time for bullshit.”

“Yeah uh,” Caboose bounced on his feet slightly. “Where _are_ the others. I’m supposed to--”

“Stay by Wash, I know,” Tucker huffed. “Until we find Wash, just stand by me. No, wait. Stand by Palomo. He’s blue.”

“ _Tan and aqua.”_

 _“CABOOSE!”_ Tucker growled. 

“Okay! Going!” 

Tucker snarled as Caboose took off, racing to catch up with Palomo. He then turned to the pile of gray soldiers. The radio was still uttering directives to no one that was still around to listen to it, but it was easily ignored. 

His shaking hands were harder to ignore.

“Damn it,” Tucker hissed, falling back into a sitting position, putting his head in his hands. “ _Damn it damn it damn it.”_


	3. Forest Base

The slip hitches, burns a bit at her core toward the end. It’s... unsettling and unnatural, which could summarize utilizing the cubes in general, but as little as the general has used them in the past even she could tell that _something_ was different this time around. 

The push into a different space made her stumble, Kimball managing only to get her hands out in front of her before she smacks the dirt ground. There was a wave of dizziness, as expected, but even then she knew something wasn’t right. 

Forcing herself upright, she saw her surroundings. It was a dense forest, they’re sheltered by darkness, but it’s not right. It’s... 

“General,” Agent Carolina’s voice cackled over the radio -- there’s a heavy interference. “This isn’t the correct coordinates. Something’s wrong.”

“And my men aren’t in position either,” Kimball muttered, mostly to herself, before looking about. She recognized one of her New Republic soldiers beside her -- tan and orange, Bitters -- trying to find his way to his feet. She grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him upward. “On your feet.”

The lieutenant looked utterly caught off guard. “Y-yessir,” he replied.

Looking about she saw several more Federal Army soldiers, sparse New Republic soldiers found amongst them. But it wasn’t nearly enough. Only enough soldiers all together to make a company, not nearly enough to constitute an army. 

Reaching up to her visor, Kimball pressed the radio. “Agent Carolina? What is your location?”

“Near,” the cryptic Freelancer replied. “I’m scanning the area with Epsilon. We don’t think everyone arrived--”

Kimball flinched at the familiar whirl of sniper fire. Her eyes wide as she looked to the men below, seeing one of her own drop, a hole between the sides of his helmet. 

The other dazed and sickened soldiers unified in a single breath, looking to where their fellow had dropped. 

A second shot fired, and Kimball rolled behind the nearest tree, Bitters not far behind her. “ _We’re under fire! Everyone find cover now!”_ she screeched over the intercom system. 

And then, like a flip of a switch, they were at war again.

There’s a stream of shouting and cursing, and soldiers crumbling as they scatter. There’s two points of sniper fire in opposite directions, hidden by the thick foliage. Kimball waits for another shot, aims her rifle toward the opposing treetops.

A blue “X” crosses her vision, surprising her. 

_Yeah, everyone, please refrain from shooting here for a second!  
_

“The hell!” Kimball growled before three snaps broke across the forest, the hail of bullets from where she had pointed disappearing. Then a series of crashes as a black armored pirate fell limply from the trees. 

“Agent Carolina,” Kimball snarled into the radio over the remaining gunfire. “Your AI is _not_ allowed to override the HUD of my military units.”

“Sorry, General,” Carolina’s voice returned, a rush of wind the only indicator the Freelancer was on the move. “But we only accessed yours. And,” a repeat scenario occurred from the remaining direction of bullets, “it was for good reason.”

Kimball narrowed her eyes. “Agent Carolina, keep this one alive. We have questions.”

_Done and done._

The general gritted her teeth. “And keep the AI out of the intercom systems.”

“Fine,” Carolina said over the radio. “We sense no one else.”

“All troops, meet center,” Kimball ordered.

* * *

Red Team luck true to form, Simmons found cover with a small group of soldiers only minutes into the firefight. Nerves were shot, but he was mostly unscaved. It was more than the soldiers still at the landing spot could have said. 

His heart was racing almost as fast as his mind in the minutes that had followed, only managing to return a few shots before Church warned him against shooting further. 

Thank god for Freelancers. For once. 

The haze of bullets ended and it looked like a decent number of men and women of Chorus were still standing to follow Kimball’s directive. 

They stood... but it wasn’t everybody. And they surely hadn’t lost enough people to justify the small numbers. 

Simmons looked across the crowds again and... they weren’t there. 

His head snapped back, fully alert, when Kimball and Carolina approached. Both stoic and brooding even with full armor on. Something wasn’t right -- none of this was really right. 

“Grif!” Simmons croaked out. “And Sarge -- Donut! The Blues, where are they--”

“Something happened with the transporter cube,” Kimball announced. “I’ve never felt it go that way. And, obviously, the enemy was expecting something.” Her head bobbed as she looked across the location. “And... I suspect these aren’t the coordinates we were supposed to arrive at either.”

“They aren’t,” Carolina assured them all, arms crossed. “I’ve got one unconscious pirate we can interrogate for more information. But right now Epsilon is --”

“Back.”

With a flicker, Church appeared just between the two women, his cobalt glow strangely dim by Simmons’ estimate, though he wouldn’t have exactly counted himself as an expert on the AI. Even with all the years they had spent on these bizarre journeys. 

“We’re a five minute’s walk from the forest base,” he droned, voice strangely gruff. “If we’re lucky, Doctor Grey’s tools are still around. But my sensors indicate we don’t have Doctor Grey with us. We don’t have half our attack squadron with us.”

“How?” Kimball seethed.

“There was interference with the cubes. I’m working on figuring it out,” Church replied, a second too soon after Kimball’s question left her lips. “It’ll take a while. Half that tech is alien. Not exactly familiar territory.”

“Don’t stretch yourself thin,” Carolina ordered, looking to the AI’s projection meaningfully. “I might need you. We need to communicate with anyone else. They might have landed on location.”

“Or still be in Armonia,” Simmons added, his voice brimming on just hopeful enough he flinched back. He wasn’t too ashamed for the hope, however. If Grif, Sarge, and Donut were still in Armonia, they were most likely safe. And not likely to accidentally be leading a charge against an enemy that knew they were coming.

It was worth the hope. Especially knowing Sarge would be _purposefully_ leading soldiers on such a task. 

“We need to settle and patrol the area,” Kimball announced to the sea of white troopers. “We need to set up communication with Armonia and make sure the capital is safe until we can get back to protect it.” She looked wearily to the soldiers further from their meeting spot. “And we need to bury the men that have fallen.”

“Great,” Church chipped in, again without allowing a breath for the last directive. “While Carolina beats info out of our party host over there, I’ll work on communications.”

 _“Epsilon,”_ Carolina said, her voice half between a warning and... _worry_ that left Simmons more than slightly unsettled himself.

“I can help set up communications if it’s the same forest base I think it is,” Simmons volunteered. “Y’know. So we don’t stretch too thin.”

“No,” Church snorted.

“Yes,” Carolina said, glaring at the AI. “Thank you, Simmons.”

“Whatever,” Church sniffed before disappearing, only saying, “Don’t make me wait, Red.”

Simmons turned and took to the base, only taking a moment to note the slowness of the Federal Army soldiers in accepting their directed tasks. 

* * *

Carolina’s speed boost made the patrol quick and efficient. She was certain of their perimeter’s sanctity. But not much else.

They had no control in the situation from the start, and like the pirates they had captured before him, their latest prisoner didn’t have much to say. He was going to need some special _treatments_ to talk, but they were down Doctor Grey.

They were down Wash and Sarge and Grif and Tucker and Caboose -- they were down everyone who wasn’t there at that moment.

As Carolina converged on the observatory, she felt that empty pinging within her head, that pause her mind left for someone else to chime in. It was a cruel reminder that, for the moment, she was down Epsilon as well. 

She hoped that, of course, remained temporary. 

Kimball was standing on the mound, looking to the soldiers around her, the ridgidness of her posture so apparent that Carolina had to consciously remove her hand from her sidearm. There was _trouble.  
_

“Have none of you taken orders before!? I said _get to your posts!”_ Kimball hissed through the com system. “I will find every single last one of you insubordinate if--”

“Is there a problem here?” Carolina called.

Immediately, the soldiers turned, varying degrees of surprise and mumbled “no” across the collective.

“Your commanding officer gave you orders,” Carolina reminded them. “Either you take them, or you take on _me._ And trust me, after wasting my day on that merc -- the one who works for the guys who are _responsible_ for your planet being in danger and the lot of your people suffering -- I would _really_ like to take some of my aggression out.”

With little hesitation among them, the Federal Army soldiers began to move out, more than a few dirty looks thrown the way of the tan clad general.

Kimball was shaking in her rage.

“Bastards,” she spit. “Bastards all of them.” She rounded on Carolina, fists clenched. “I lost _twelve good soldiers_ out there. And I’m surrounded by incompetence now. They must have known who they were picking off when--”

“Who of the New Republic is still here?” Carolina asked, cutting her off.

“A-a lieutenant,” Kimball explained. “Bitters. He’s... not more than a kid. Part of the squad trained by you guys.”

“Keep him close,” Carolina advised. “Having him on your side is going to be your key to speaking to your other soldiers.”

“They’re not my soldiers,” Kimball replied darkly.

Narrowing her eyes, Carolina stood her ground. “They are now, General.”

Quietly, the women stared at each other. They both knew what it was like to lead, and what it was like to lose what you led. Carolina hoped that sentiment would be enough for Kimball to trust her.

But the silence wasn’t broken by either of them, but instead by Epsilon.

_C, I’ve got a line up._

Carolina breathed, turning to the path into the observatory. “About time. Did the others land at our destination.”

_Not quite. As far as I can tell... no one did. Instead. Well. I’ve got the capital and one other squad reporting in._

“Where from?” Carolina asked. 

_One of the crash sites. Crash Site Bravo._


	4. Crash Site Bravo

While not exactly as planned, Sarge was certain that their squad was going to be victorious in this unyielding firefight! If only he could get the right man to respond. 

“There’s more firing coming from the platform due East!” Doctor Grey called from beside him, ducking for cover as Sarge rose up, aiming his shotgun and sending a barrage toward the enemy closest to them. “East! _Ugh!_ Aim left!”

“Will do, little lady,” he chuckled before doing just that. 

“Doctor will be just fine, _thank_ you!”

“Little lady doctor.”

“Close enough!” 

The hollow click of his gun had Sarge hunkered down beside the good doctor once more, narrowly missing gunfire just past his head. He could almost _see_ the way Doctor Grey’s brows were raising into her hairline at the Red’s narrow escape. Sarge immediately worked on reloading the shotgun at high speed. 

“Simmons! Come in! We need to initiate--”

“ _Still_ not Simmons!” Grif’s voice growled over the radio. “I’m being serious here! Where the fuck is everyone!?”

“Grif! If you would get off the radio I would be able to give my actual soldiers orders!” Sarge snarled before hopping back up and taking aim.

“ _Left_ , Colonel Sarge!” 

Immediately, the Red readjusted and fired -- the bullets made contact and with a flicker the pirate’s camouflage broke, the enemy falling to his certain death. “Great Jumping Jehoshaphat, you were right, Doc!”

“I’m aware!” the white armored doctor cooed from behind him, grabbing his hips and jerking him toward the opposite direction. “Now keep shooting!”

“Whoa there,” Sarge called down, looking toward the younger doctor. “You have to at least let me bask in my minor victories! How else am I supposed to keep up my own morale?”

A frustrated sigh escaping her, the doctor looked up to him. “Keeping _alive_ would be a nice start!”

“Fuck, we’re running out of ammunition over here!” Grif called over the radio. “Does anyone have anything that would keep us from dying in the next ten minutes!”

Doctor Grey continued to stare back at Sarge before reaching up to her helmet, “Does anyone have eyes on the last shooter?”

“Good call,” Sarge muttered appreciatively.

“We do. Uh, to both questions, Sirs,” a voice boomed over the radio. “This is Andersmith. I’m by Blue Outpost. I have a Warthog I might be able to use --”

“Great!” Grif yelped, a minor explosion sounding off near the sandbags where he and a few Federal soldiers were posted. “Andersmith, use the gun on that Warthog to take out--”

“Grif!” Sarge called angrily. “ _Absolutely_ do not go further with this terrible terrible plan. I’m sure it involves disaster and catastrophe. And a lot of nope.”

“Are you fucking serious right now!?”

“Uh, Sirs?” Andersmith asked over the radio. “What... should we do? They’re still shooting--”

“Son,” Sarge said, “Get yourself in that Warthog and bring her around here to Red Base. Grif and I will handle the rest.”

“But that’s in the line of fire--”

“Don’t backtalk me, Grif! You’re making me angry!”

“Uh, moving, Sir,” Andersmith called out. 

Beside the gunfire, Sarge and Doctor Grey found their barricade oddly quiet comparative to all the time in the battle thus far. Sarge, knowing Grif was glaring from the sandbags, decided to stare his way through the boxes making their own barricades, assured that in no competition would he be surrendering to a Grif. 

Fortunately, before the need to blink became too great, the familiar roar of a Warthog engine broke the silence, and the vehicle, deflecting the hail of bullets, screeched to a halt before their positions. 

“Grif!” Sarge called out, leaping over the barricade and making his way toward the vehicle. “Get out here and get me my tunes!”

“That’s it, you’re an _absolute_ nutjob, Old Man!” Grif seethed. 

“Colonel?” Doctor Grey called over the radio.

“No worries, Doctor Grey, Medicine Woman,” Sarge cooed, sliding behind the vehicle to avoid the shots aimed for him more directly. He then climbed onto the trunk, grabbing the gun. “And GRIF! Do I have to remind you about my Court Martial--”

“It’s a shotgun!” Grif finished, leaping into the front seat and slamming the door shut. He reached forward and shoved Andersmith’s head beneath the plexiglass. “I’m aware, you lunatic!” He reached for the dash, blasting the music across the radio.

“Heh, just how it should be,” Sarge declared before aiming toward the rock facing. “I’ll go ahead and forward your mail to Hell--” he cried out, firing off the machine gun toward the sniper’s nest, grinning at the satisfaction of stopping the opposing gunfire and the loud cracking of breaking armor, “-- _dirtbags.”_

And, finally, it was over. 

The beginning was over, at least. 

* * *

Sitting on a stack of busted sandbags, Grif watched as his own leg jittered uncontrollably. He focused on it, eyes narrowing more and more as he just could not get his limbs to cooperate with him.

The Chorus soldiers were still gathering supplies and surveying the area, not that it would matter much. They knew where they were, Grif had lived in the hellhole crash site for months before the natives “rescued” them an everything went to Hell for them all.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, quickly ripping off his helmet with one hand and reaching for his belt with the other. 

He tried desperately to not smoke too much -- his supplies of cigarettes were dwindling with every other supply on Chorus, and their homegrown tobacco had a sweetness to it that was alien and choking in ways that he hated enough as was -- but he _earned_ that smoke.

The cigarette dangled between his teeth as he reached for the lighter and finally lit the cig. 

For a moment, and only a moment, cool relief filled his limbs. He stopped shaking enough to rest his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. 

They almost _died_ for this godforsaken planet. _Again._ And that time it wasn’t even part of the plan. The plan failed before it even had a chance to get started, and if Simmons was there Grif could easily make comment about the shitfest that was their situation ever since landing on Chorus. 

But he wasn’t. It was just him and _Sarge._

“GRIF!”

On instinct, Grif snuffed out the cigarette with his boot, flinching only afterward, realizing it was he last of that pack and he _wasted_ it. “Goddammit,” he growled.

“Grif! Are you sleeping on the job again!?” Sarge demanded, marching up to him, hands firm on his shotgun. 

“If only, Sarge,” the orange captain responded bitterly. He looked up to the ‘colonel’ and couldn’t bite his tongue any longer. “Hey, by the way, nice job trying to get more fucking men killed out there. It does _great_ for the morale of the troops to be led by someone who thinks we’re playing on a Risk board.”

The elderly officer sputtered. “Are you daring to backtalk me!?”

“There’s no backtalk, Sarge. It’s just outright disdain.”

“Why you--”

"What do you _want,_ Sarge?” Grif demanded, reaching for his abandoned helmet.

“What I _want_ is a bullet in every insubordinate’s head!” he howled in return, aiming the shotgun at Grif and cocking the weapon. “Any takers?”

“What did you want _before_ you wanted that?”

“Before? Grif, I assure you, this is all I’ve wanted.”

“You know what--” Grif began, not certain of his next line, but fortunately he happened to notice the approach of a large but familiar lieutenant. The Captain sighed with relief slightly and snapped his helmet back on properly. “What do you want, Andersmith?”

“And good job at obeying orders, Lieutenant!” Sarge called, his weapon never losing its aim for Grif’s head.

The tan and blue soldier shifted uncomfortably at the comments before nodding briskly. “Yes. Uh, thank you, Sir,” he said with a small nod to the red sergeant. He then turned his head more directly to Grif. “Captain, I have gathered the reports from the different groups, and gotten a headcount. Should I deliver them to you--”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine,” Grif huffed. 

“Now wait just a canoodling minute!” Sarge bellowed.

“Sir?” 

Grif rounded on the leader with his teeth gritting. “Oh, what the fuck now!?”

“I am the commanding officer! Why in tarnations is he trying to tell you the information that obviously belongs to the C.O.!?” Sarge barked.

Andersmith seemed to almost be shaking in his armor. “My apologies, Colonel. I... was just used to reporting to Grif and the other Captains. It was a force of habit, not meant as a slight--”

“Oh, don’t apologize to him,” Grif growled at Andersmith.

“Sir?”

“He’s reporting to me because he’s one of my _men_ , you senile idiot!” Grif continued, eyes burrowing into Sarge.

“It’s undermining authority!”

“It’s a goddamn status report!”

“That’s _mine_ and not _yours!”_

“No one cares!” Grif cried, throwing his arms in the air before turning on his heels back toward Andersmith. “Andersmith, deliver the message before someone here commits murder.”

Swallowing, Andersmith shifted uncomfortably before announcing, “Not only have we confirmed that we arrived at Crash Site Bravo rather than our directed location, but it seems that very few of the original party arrived here at all. You two and the Federal Army doctor are the only high officers who have landed, and of the fifteen other Chorus soldiers the rest of us are privates and myself.”

“Okay,” Grif drawled.

“Not okay, Grif, this is why you don’t deserve to be an officer!” Sarge snapped. “You’re supposed to say ‘Damage report -- and be sure to frame it as victorious for our side as possible.’ Like this. Andersmith, damage report -- and be sure to frame it as victorious for our side as possible.”

Andersmith shifted again. “There were five casualties to our side out of the fifteen of us. We’ve so far only found two of the pirates’ bodies. We... think that’s all there was.”

Immediately, both Reds found silence. 

Grif screwed his eyes tight and forced down a breath. They were _screwed_ if they didn’t find a way to contact the others and get out of there before more pirates or mercs arrived--

Eyes snapping open, Grif pointed to Andersmith. “Go tell Doctor Grey that there’s a radio tower next to Blue Base. It’s the one Wash made, we might be able to get a hold of Armonia and get the fuck out of here, _fast.”_

“Still pretending to give order, Grif!” Sarge growled.

“Not pretending, you coot,” Grif snapped back. “You know what, Andersmith? Tell her to meet me there. I can’t take this view anymore.

* * *

Doctor Grey cracked her knuckles with a soft hum in her throat, ignoring the whine of pain the tan and green soldier released as she straightened out the broken leg. 

“Fortunately the bullet didn’t lodge in the bone,” she told him. “You should more or less walk it off. With some assistance.”

The New soldier stared at her with utter disdain, the neighboring rebel soldiers very much sharing the look.

“You gave pain medication to that Fed bastard with a broken arm,” the soldier hissed. She curled around her splinted leg. 

“Supplies are low and the bullet is lodged in his arm. I had to do a lot more digging around through his vital tissues,” Doctor Grey then said lowly, “Of course, even though it has no medical purposes I could do the same for _you_ and _then_ give you the same medication. How does that sound?”

The rebels gave her various degrees of scorn before helping their sister in arms onto her feet. 

Taking a breath, Grey ran her hands through her tightly bunned hair, letting it fall out even more messily than it was before. She muttered to herself about Fed and New and bit back the tiny voice in the back of her skull that questioned whether or not the rebels had a point.

A distraction finally came, though she was slightly perturbed that it was yet another tan soldier.

“Doctor Grey,” the tan and blue soldier said, having to duck beneath the door frame of their makeshift infirmary. “Captain Grif sent me. He wants you to meet him at Blue Base. There’s a radio tower, he wants to see if we can reach the other soldiers.”

“Wow!” Doctor Grey replied, yanking off her gloves and reaching for her armored gauntlets. “That almost sounds like a plan. I didn’t know the captain had it in him!”

“He’s a very good soldier, ma’am,” the rebel soldier said shortly.

Grey merely smiled as she finished putting on her armor. “Hm. Sure.”

Blue Base really wasn’t all that far from the Red outpost she had set up shop in -- it amazed her that the Reds and Blues somehow survived these close quarters with each other for so long before they were discovered by the Chorus armies. 

Then again they _did_ have access to highly advanced weaponry and half of a wrecked UNSC transport carrier.

As she finally reached the gaudy radio tower in question, Doctor Grey was impressed with the ingenuity that was required in order to construct it. But the thought wasn’t able to last long with the commotion from the platform above.

“It’s _not_ working! That’s why I called for Doctor Grey!” 

“Have you tried switching it to diesel?”

Climbing the construct’s ladder, Doctor Grey sighed before approaching the two Red soldiers. They were squared off, eye to eye and nearly nose to nose. 

“Something I can help with, boys?” she asked, already appraising the equipment. 

“Yes, make it work,” Grif replied gruffly. 

“Grif! That is no way to talk to a lady!” Sarge growled.

With a roll of her eyes, Doctor Grey dropped down to open the hatch on the transmitter. Sure enough, it had been ripped apart. Probably by the pirates long before their ambush was even initiated. It was a smart plan, Grey would have thought of doing something similar had the tides been turned. She wished sorely for one of their attackers to have survived so she could take _them_ apart instead. 

“They did a number on the radio,” she announced over the bickering. “But I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy!” 

And she did, barely breaking out in sweat before rising up and beginning to fiddle with the controls. Really, she wished she had known what Washington was thinking when he made this. It was rather disorderly, as if he built all the parts separately and organized by common tools rather than by function.

She looked back to them, smile widened. “And _done!”_ she sung.

“Doctor Grey, you are a beacon of hope to the Red Army,” Sarge croaked out.

“Oh thank god,” Grif said with an exuberant wave of his arms. “We can get a hold of the capital?”

“Probably not a secure line, but it’s our only hope of figuring out what happened here,” Grey agreed, adjusting the frequency. “Mayday mayday. This is the army of Chorus at Crash Site Bravo. Mayday mayday. Capital, can you hear us?”

Everyone grew quiet, watching the radio carefully, hoping desperately for a reply among the loud cadence of static. 

The doctor leaned forward again. “Mayday mayday--”

“D--zzsst-- Grey? -- chhck -- Emily -- sschhhtt -- you?”

“Yes!” Sarge exclaimed prematurely.

“Sh!!” Doctor Grey snapped before adjusting the settings. “Yes. This is Doctor Emily Grey of the Federal Army of Chorus. Armonia do you copy?”

Finally, the static breaking, they could hear the general’s voice, “Why, _yes,_ Dear Girl. Thank heavens! We’ve been so concerned--”

“Doctor Grey,” a second voice cut in, undoubtedly Agent Washington even in the tin sounding radio waves, “We’re also getting a signal with Carolina and Kimball from the forest base we were at before. Are you definitely at Crash Site Bravo?”

“Uh, yeah, we’re a little familiar with it by now, Wash,” Grif responded dryly.

“Oh, good, Grif’s with you -- who else is there?”

“First, Wash, how about you tell us who’s with you!” Sarge snapped.

“Okay, Sarge, too,” Wash’s tone was short even over the radio. “Simmons is with Carolina and Kimball. They have a decent sized group, but lost a lot of soldiers. We still have everyone who was to be stationed at the capital and seven other soldiers from the attacking party. Including myself, Donut, and Lopez.”

“Then everyone’s accounted for!” Sarge declared.

Doctor Grey looked curiously toward the Reds just as Grif scowled at the radio.

“No...” Grif said lowly. “What about Caboose and Tucker?”


	5. The Capital

The hours following the explosion had him pretty restricted to the medical bay. Not that Donut minded all that much, it was a lot better than dealing with the chaos taking over the streets of the capital at that moment.

The medic had been rather reluctant to clear him and move on to other patients -- some caught much more violently in the explosion than Donut himself, after all. 

“Are you _sure_ that these are just--”

“They’re old scars,” Donut laughed, running a hand over the right side of his face. “I mean, they might call us simulation troopers, but that didn’t make the bombs and gunfire we threw at each other any less real!” 

The medic’s stylus tapped against her tablet, her face very concerned. “I’m not sure...”

“Oh you can definitely clear me,” Donut said with an airy laugh. “Believe me, your time is _way_ better spent with those other guys. Their injuries look just _horrible!”_

She frowned but reluctantly twirled her stylus in her fingers before checking off on Donut’s status. 

“Alright!” the lightish red soldier beamed, pushing off from the medbay table and landing firmly on his feet. If his slight dizziness was at all apparent, the medic didn’t let on.

“We can get you another helmet from one of our armories,” she said, picking up his with the broken visor. “I know it might not match exactly but...”

“Eh, we’ll hold off on that,” Donut said with a curl of his nose at the idea. “I know it’s probably not a good idea to say this in a warzone, but I wouldn’t be found dead in unmatching armor!”

The medic’s mouth tightened into a straight line.

“By the way,” Donut continue, taking the offered helmet. “I _adore_ the tan and purple armor you New Republic medics have. It’s so poignant!” Then, with a bit of a pause in reflection, “I... had a friend who _loved_ purple.”

“Good to know.”

“He was also a pacifist,” Donut said, tapping his chin. “Not really the best medic, though -- Oh, speaking of friends, do you know where Lopez and Wash are? I should probably get to them.”

The medic, already turning to go further into the other wing of the medical bay, pointed toward the exit door. “Your... robot is at the remaining garage near the South Gate. Agent Washington, against medical advisory, is in the War Room with the Fed general.”

Caught off guard, Donut blinked. “Against medical advisory?”

* * *

It took everything in the former Freelancer to not crush the control panel. He leaned closer into it instead, ignoring how he had all but squared Doyle away from his own outpost’s communicator. 

“What do you mean Tucker and Caboose aren’t with you?” Wash demanded. “We’ve already received a full list of active soldiers from Epsilon. They aren’t with them. And they’re not here. Only ten of the original squadron didn’t get transported.” He didn’t mention how they lost three men in the catastrophe that was left in the wake, and that the majority of the others were still being patched up, including the Reds’ own teammates. It wasn’t something he needed Sarge to freak out about. Not when the situation was already so precarious as it was. “They _must_ be with you.”

“They’re not,” Grif’s voice garbled over the radio. “We checked for everyone we had. It’s just us in the goddamn canyon. Again.”

“This doesn’t make any sense!” Wash decried, finally looking over his shoulder fully toward Doyle when the man shifted very obviously forward.

“It _is_ possible that other soldiers were taken to another location, Agent Washington,” Doyle said smoothly, as if facing a bull. “There were, after all, _five_ transport cubes utilized, and if the numbers Doctor Grey is giving us are correct, then there are more than enough soldiers for _two_ locations to not be reporting in.“ The leader paused for a long breath before looking rather sorrowfully to the foreign soldier. “I’m afraid it makes more than enough sense for your soldiers to be among them.”

Washington stared into him, hating more than he could express at how true and just how much _sense_ the words made despite Wash not wanting it to be so. Doyle eventually recoiled under the heavy gaze and Wash, aggravated with his inability to hide the feelings he had, turned back to the communication board. 

He hoped that, at the very least, Tucker and Caboose were together in this mess. Whether they liked it or not, they had a better chance together than they did apart. 

“Epsilon, is that possible?” Wash asked into the radio.

“Maybe, give me a minute,” the AI droned back. “Carolina and Kimball are on... now.”

“Washington.”

Suddenly, like bright eyed kid moved up after basic, Washington felt utter relief again. Like some of the responsibility was gone. “Carolina. I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Same,” she replied curtly. “Wash, is Epsilon right? You’re at the capital?”

“Yes,” Wash replied. “Though not from a lack of trying to blast it all to hell. There was some sort of kick back from the transportation cubes. When everyone left, either some of us were kicked out of range or there was something that pushed through while we were trying to go out. Either way, it sliced through the building like a carving knife and took equipment with it. And left those of us remaining in a fireball.”

Doyle made an uncomfortable squirm at the details, his hands wringing. Wash couldn’t blame him in the least. 

It was a devastating counterattack. 

“So you think they were trying to push something through to the same coordinates we were leaving from?” Carolina asked. 

“In a way, it almost makes sense,” Epsilon’s voice cracked through the radio static. “I can hardly get a hold on the coordinates everyone was sent to, everything’s jumbled up. It would make sense if it was because the coordinates are actually going through two different directions. But it doesn’t explain the ambushes.”

Wash felt his frown deepen. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It was an organized attack,” Kimball’s voice sounded across the radio. “They _knew_ where we were landing.”

“Same with us,” Doctor Grey reported. 

And, unspoken, it was probably true for the other two transported parties. 

“This was organized and it was efficient,” Kimball said slowly. “They knew what they were doing, and we didn’t. It’s possible every bit of information we received from the last raid was a plant to organize this offensive. It’s possible that the mercenaries never even left the planet.”

“Well, fuck,” Grif grunted. 

“Possible,” Wash admitted reluctantly. “But I find it odd that we’ve not seen them at any of the attack sites yet.”

“But there’s two of them and two groups we don’t think we’ve heard from,” Sarge’s muffled growl sounded. “Not great odds by my estimate.”

 _“Sarge!”_ Grif yelled. “You’re not supposed to say that. We still don’t know if Caboose and Tucker were there. I mean. I’m sure they’re fine, Wash.”

His fists curling tighter, Wash ground his teeth. “They had better be.” Knowing he needed to move on to a different topic of discussion, he looked down to the reports Epsilon had been streaming to their computers. “First thing’s first, Doyle, I’ll need you to keep up communications here with the bases and have your soldiers help Epsilon in searching for any other signals from the two groups we’ve not heard back from. I’ll use the coordinates that Epsilon gathered to round up Carolina and Sarge’s stations. Two trucks each should probably do it --”

“You can’t be talking about leaving, Agent Washington!” Doyle sputtered. “My god, man, your head--”

“Is fine--”

“Washington!” Carolina’s snapped over the radio. “Are you injured, soldier!?”

Wash glared at the radio, running his hand over his bandages. “I’m fine, boss.”

“That doesn’t sound fine to me, Wash,” she growled. “You have a promise to keep--”

“Carolina--”

“A promise is a _promise_ , Agent Washington.”

He stared at the radio, unable to say anything in response to that. Which was exactly the kind of response Carolina needed to know she had won that.

“Not to mention, if our enemy has any cunning, which I’m not saying they do, but should your city be a Blue Base and I be a Red Soldier,” Sarge sounded off, “Now would be a pretty grand time to play Capture the Flag.”

Mouth gaping slightly, Wash turned to look at Doyle who seemed more than a little compliant with Sarge’s assessment. 

Wash closed his eyes and breathed. “Fine. Alright. But until we know what happened, everyone stand their ground and keep in constant radio contact. We’ll work on finding a way to secure channels. It might be easier with Epsilon--”

“On it.”

“Okay, good,” Wash nodded before sending a glare toward Doyle. “And at no point are we not scanning for contact from the other groups.”

“Absolutely, Agent Washington,” Doyle said assuredly.

“Wash?” Carolina picked up.

“Yes, boss?” the younger agent grumbled. 

“Get some rest, soldier.”

“Yessir.”


	6. Burning Plains

The equipment of all the ships and vehicles scattered across the shipyard put Palomo in the mind of _elephant graveyards_ and _pet semataries_ but he pressed forward all the same. His helmet’s HUD was still reading out the list of possibly useful equipment Jensen had put together, but he was mostly ignoring it. 

He also was mostly ignoring the chattering of Captain Caboose in his ear. 

“And that’s why Agent Washington’s my best friend, but not like Church is my best friend. Or like Sheila is my best friend. Lieutenant, have you ever heard of Sheila?”

“Um,” Palomo stopped, looking around at the mostly broken and rather confusing alien ship before them. Nothing on Jensen’s list was similar to alien tech, but the sight was just so strange and mesmerizing all the same. He turned to look back at the blue armored captain. “No? I mean. I guess not. Captain Tucker doesn’t really talk to me much about your guys’ adventures.”

If he was being completely honest with himself, Palomo had learned more about his captain by talking to his squadmates than ever from talking to Tucker himself. Tucker mostly had the same things to say to him. 

Something along the lines of “I fucking hate you, Palomo”, which of course didn’t mean anything like it sounded. 

Captain Tucker was just a little rough around his edges, after all. 

“Sheila was an awesome lady,” Caboose explained with a gentle sigh. His head tilted to the side at the memory. “I mean, she was a computer lady, but she was the best computer lady. Sometimes. If she didn’t remember me she could be mean. But _our_ Sheila was the best. Well. Freckles is the best now.”

The assault rifle let out a string of humming harmonics that made Palomo shift uncomfortably away from it. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re welcome, Freckles!” Caboose sung back before grinning at Palomo. “But yeah. Sheila was great. I miss Sheila a bit.”

Palomo smiled the best he could at the Blue captain after the morning they had just had. Lightly, he responded, “She sounds like she was pretty great, Captain Caboose. I mean. I didn’t understand _everything_ you said. But I think I’ve got the gist of it.”

“Yeah,” Caboose nodded. “She was a tank.”

“Wow! _That’d_ be useful,” Palomo said, tapping a finger against the chin of his helmet. 

“Yeah. Then she was a ship! Then... she was a building. But that wasn’t the fun Sheila.”

That time Palomo didn’t follow the train of thought much at all, though not for a lack of trying. He cocked his head to the side to begin questioning the officer more when he was interrupted. 

“Hey!” a gruff yell called from over a small hill. Soon following it was the white and black striped Federal Army soldier that had survived the onslaught with them. His grip on the chain gun was a little too tight for Palomo’s comfort. 

On instinct, the rebel soldier clutched to his pistol, jaw squaring within his helmet. 

“Hello!” Caboose called back in turn.

The soldier stopped not too far from them, head bobbing as he looked between them. “What are you doing here? We need supplies. Tell me. What have you found?”

“Well,” Caboose started, lax and easy even in his footing. It was like he wasn’t afraid at all. “We found some ships. But they were broke. And we found some guns. But they were broke, too. Now we’ve found another ship, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere.” He eyed the wrecked alien vessel another time. “Yeah, no, it’s not going anywhere. Unless we find the keys somewhere.”

The soldier bristled before turning toward Palomo. Palomo gritted his teeth. “What? You’ve found nothing! It is our orders to gather supplies!”

“Looking for them,” Palomo reminded the larger soldier, doing his best to elongate himself without resorting to visibly rising up on his boot’s toes. “But I’m also following Captain Caboose. So I’m doing whatever he wants.”

The two looked to the commanding officer. He blankly stared back.

“Currently wanting some french fries,” he hummed in response.

The Federal Army soldier muttered darkly, too low to catch, then turned his cycloptic gaze toward Palomo. “You should get back to your orders.”

“I _am!”_ Palomo cried out. “What’s your deal!?”

“My _deal_ is that I would be better off working with trained monkeys than you rebel terrorists!” Golov hissed. 

“We are _not_ terrorists, you!!! You-- government... _zombies!!!”_ Palomo growled.

Captain Caboose sputtered, shifting from one foot to another as he looked at them. “Oh! Are we about to rap battle? This will be awesome!” he shouted.

“HEY, ASSHOLES!” 

Immediately, the three dropped their stances and turned toward the hill. Captain Tucker was already making his way toward them, his alien sword brandished. He was _not_ happy and Palomo felt like his gut had just been splashed with cold water.

“What the _fuck_ are you all yelling about?” Tucker snarled as he approached. “I could hear you across the goddamn canyon! Knock it off! We’re in enemy territory, you want them coming after us now?” 

They fell quiet. 

Palomo, swallowing, spoke up with, “But, uh, Sir. You’re yelling fairly loud and--”

“Shut the fuck up, Palomo,” Tucker grunted. He then looked over Golov and Caboose. “What have we got?”

“Ammunition and spare weapons,” Golov said, pulling off the recovered chain gun and several other weapons he had strapped across his person. “But... it might not be good until we have vehicles.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker responded before looking to Caboose. He sighed. “Do I even bother?”

“We found a ship!” Caboose exclaimed with a wave of his weapon toward the alien device. “But it needs its keys. And I haven’t asked permission yet.”

Tucker released a growl. “Caboose! We’re about to run for our lives and all you’re looking at is things we can’t use!?” he roared at his fellow captain. 

Caboose stared back. “Yes.”

“Damn it!” Tucker yelled, smacking the butt of his weapon against the ship. 

The three soldiers flinched at the action. Palomo felt his heart racing all the way into his throat he thought, never breaking eye contact with his captain. It was gut wrenching, but he couldn’t help but feel like there was something wrong with Tucker. 

Then, suddenly, there was a purr of electric spark.

Captain Tucker, who had been heaving with heavy breaths before them, spun around, confused. “What the...” 

They backed away cautiously as the alien vessel came to life, the curves in its smooth purple metal glowing in a soft turquoise light.

“Uh, Captain Tucker?” Palomo asked, gripping tighter to his weapon. “Did... did you do that?”

“I... I don’t...”

“Tucker!” Caboose exclaimed, practically bouncing on his feet. “Your sword! You know. The one that’s actually a key? It must be the key to the space car!”

“You... you control alien technology,” Golov whispered, utterly breathless. 

The ship began to hover in just above the ground, a door opening. 

“Fuck _yeah_ I do!” Tucker replied. “Holy fuck this is awesome. We’re getting out of this hellhole in style -- hold on let me get Jensen! Yes. Oh fuck yes. This is great! I’m amazing!”

The captain took off back toward the landing spot, leaving the other three.

“Sweet,” Caboose said simply, looking over the ship.

“His sword is... really a key,” Golov said to himself, still processing.

“Man, that’s so lame,” Palomo muttered with a blink. “I used to think he was a Jedi looking for a Padawan.” He sighed. “One more dream down, Palomo.”

* * *

Her allergies weren’t acting up, but that was cold comfort in the heat and suffocating dryness of the desert they were in. Even sitting in the shade as she was, Jensen could feel her panting and her sweating all over. 

Still, her focus was on the equipment she’d gathered -- from other soldiers, from the gutted vehicles strewn about -- quickly disassembling and reassembling everything she could.

They needed a radio. They needed to touch back with command and let them know what was going on, get orders on what was supposed to happen next.

The New Republic’s supplies had always been lackluster at best, of course, this wasn’t a new scenario. She’d spent most of her time in garages and armories before it was clear that actually _using_ the equipment was her only technical downfall. She _could_ make a radio from these parts. 

It was just hard. And, her assigned armor as shabby as anything else, her sweat slicked fingers kept slipping out of her gloves’ fingers.

“Damn it,” she slurred, looking down to her glove again. She used her clear hand to pull down on the exosuit, popping the finger back in. 

She looked intently on the scrap radio and began to fiddle once more. 

Static. _Again.  
_

“Jensen! Hey!”

She whipped around, looking to Captain Tucker as he jogged toward her, sword brandished. 

“Captain Tucker!” she yelled, holding up the radio. “I’ve got it transmitting frequencies, but there’s too much interference. I think it’s the spire thingy they were using before,” she noted loudly, her words becoming increasingly watery and out of breath.

“No shit,” he replied, looking to the spire himself before looking at Jensen. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll use it when we’re out of range!”

The young lieutenant blinked. “We have a vehicle!?”

“Oh, yeah, baby!” Tucker said, all grin. “We’re getting out of here in _style!_ Now c’mon. Before the alien stuff gets antsy.”

He turned, Jensen taking her cue gathered up all the parts that she could and scrambled up after him. A few spares dropped from her grasp, but she couldn’t force herself to care all that much as she concentrated on taking up after her leader.

“What vehicle is it? Did we get a jeep? A Pelican? What’d you mean by alien!?”

“Nope and nope,” Tucker laughed. “Ihave the alien mojo thanks to my sword of power or something, and it kind of looks like some of the cruisers they used to take me and Junior on. Except older and shittier. Uh. Not that it’s shitty or anything. I mean I control a fucking space car.”

Jensen stumbled down the hill after him. “Whatever it is, it sounds awesome, Captain.”

“You know what, Jensen?” Tucker asked as he slowed, coming across the ship with her and ignoring how she dropped everything in her arms. “It might be the first thing today that _is_ pretty awesome.”

* * *

Everyone was so tense and unhappy, which made sense. Caboose wasn’t _unhappy_ but he could have definitely been more pleased if more of their friends were with them. Like Church and Washington and Carolina. And the Reds. 

Tucker was someone. And the Lieutenants and the other guy were there, but those newer guys weren’t his friends the way Andersmith was. And Tucker... well. Tucker yelled a bunch. 

_And_ he ran away with the key to their cool new space car.

Palomo and Golov were putting all the junk they thought was good into the space car, which Caboose could help with, he was good at lifting stuff, but instead he was looking out to where Tucker had left. 

Toward the tower in the sky that shot lasers. It’s where the pirates were, which was why they were leaving, Caboose understood that much. But he wondered, just a bit, why he felt so strange. 

“Hey, um, Freckles?” Caboose questioned his assault rifle, looking down to him.

“Yes, Captain Caboose?” the gun responded evenly.

“Could, uh, you look around things and do the thing where you tell me if I’ve got my friends. And if I don’t have friends here?” he asked.

“Thermal scan initialized,” Freckles responded immediately. 

“OH, yes! Thank you, Freckles,” Caboose responded in a hum, looking about the wasteland.

“Caboose!” Tucker called, him and the other Lieutenant coming up to the ship.

“Tucker!” Caboose called. “You took the key! How am I supposed to get my permit if I can’t practice--”

“Shut up, Caboose, and get in the car,” Tucker said, brushing past him. 

“Well there is no need for cursing!” Caboose snapped back, but he already was keeping in step behind them. 

“Captain Caboose,” the rifle sounded, “thermal scan is inconclusive.”

Caboose loaded onto the ship, jumping slightly as the door closed behind him. “Oh, that is terrible. We should get him some orange juice, Freckles.”

“What’s inconclusive?” Golov asked, uncomfortably shifting between the walls of the vehicle. 

“The thermal sweater,” Caboose responded, following Tucker to the front seats. “What’s this button do?”

“He means thermal scans,” Tucker explained before smacking Caboose’s pointing finger away. “And don’t touch anything.” He looked slightly at Caboose, brow raised. “Wait, why would thermal scans be inconclusive? It’s yes or no.”

“It might be interference,” Jensen slurred from the seat she had taken just behind Tucker, radio in her lap. “Like the radio.”

“Or, because it’s a thermal scan, it could be the heat from the desert!” Palomo chirped.

“Shut up, Palomo,” Tucker groaned. “And sit down, Caboose.” 

“Sitting!” Caboose responded, plopping into the nearest seat. 

Tucker tapped his chin at the standing podium before him. “Hm. I wonder if this is missing parts. Like. a wheel.”

“Or a keyhole,” Caboose added. 

“No, Caboose-- Oh. Oh _wait!”_ Tucker exclaimed before sticking his sword into the stand, lights glowed across the dashes around them. “Oh _fuck yes_ , thank your friendly neighborhood prophesied hero!”

He turned the key-sword and pressed forward... backing the vehicle into the cliffside behind them, everyone screaming and flailing into the floor as a result.

“Fucking inverted controls.”


	7. Abandon

His rifle held at his hip, Bitters didn’t see much point in getting in the way. He stuck instead to the shade of the base they had taken post in, or at least he had until he couldn’t take the sound of the Freelancer pounding what little information she could out of the silent mercenary who had creamed them at arrival. 

For a moment, his grip shifted closer to the hilt of his gun at the thought of the mercs responsible for _everything_ he and his fellow soldiers had been through. But he thought better of it soon enough, instead using the energy to resposition out a little further. A stump made for a pretty good resting spot.

Gold Team Tactics, after all. 

He relaxed more, considered his position, and cursed a bit under his breath remembering that Palomo, Jensen, and Smith weren’t with him. He could at least seem to be doing something when with his squad. Especially when he was held in comparison to Palomo.

An itch of concern found itself a home in the back of his head for only a moment before he shooed it away. They were fine or they weren’t.

Wouldn’t have been the first time Bitters didn’t get a goodbye into a last conversation with someone. 

The grumbling and shuffling of the Fed soldiers that approached almost would have gone unnoticed, but Bitters had never quite learned all of Captain Grif’s sleeping tactics yet, and so he made the mistake of turning to face them as they neared.

“Hey, New,” the first grouched, breaking ahead of the other soldiers. “You have a permit for parking there? Or are you just as useful as the other News that landed here?”

Bitters’ body flinched involuntarily, his eyes locking onto the dirt and mud covering the white armors’ boots and gauntlets. Here these disrespectful fuckers had been burying his own and they were talking trash to him already--

He bit back a few initial insults that came to mind and instead crossed a leg, settling on one much more collected, “Just so happens I do. It’s written in an F.U. Do you need to see it?”

Another stepped forward, a bit bigger, but Bitters didn’t react externally. “Hey, you little rebel shit, if the rest of us have to pull our weight you better believe _you’re_ going to. Get off your ass and do something.”

“I’m working,” Bitters huffed, leaning forward. “I’m performing reconnaissance. So unless you have other orders for me, how about you clear the fuck out?”

“No way you’re doing reconnaissance,” the first scoffed. “Reconnaissance is just the same as scouting. Scouting would require you getting off your ass and checking the goddamn perimeter!”

“How would you know?” Bitters hissed. “I’m an expert at it. That’s why it’s my assignment. I don’t see _you_ fuckers being assigned to reconnaissance, so stop being bitches and don’t interfere with my job.”

The larger one came closer, growling. “Who’d you call a bitch, punk?”

“What the hell is going on here!?”

At once, the Federal Army soldiers fell into line, shoulder to shoulder. Bitters stood up, adjusting his grip loosely on his rifle as General Kimball approached. 

Even with her helmet on, the general’s anger was visible. She whipped her head from the Feds to Bitters quickly, fists clenching. “Did I stutter when I gave orders earlier, gentlemen?” she demanded, sights falling on the Feds at last. 

The three visibly bristled at the tone and address. Lowly, though, they responded “No, ma’am.”

“Then fall in,” she growled. Her sights then turned back to Bitters, making his stomach uneasy all over again. “Bitters, walk with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. 

*

They were by the further perimeters before the general even bothered to slow down. It’d taken more than his usual effort for Bitters to keep up with his leader, so it wasn’t until they had slowed down that he even realized how far they were away from any other soldiers. Or how long it had been since he saw any of the Feds around.

Kimball stopped, gazing out into the distant cliff sides. Bitters stopped more than a few feet behind her. He shifted.

“Uh,” he muttered, looking at her cautiously. “General?”

“Are you willing to follow me, soldier?” she asked, turning slightly to face him. “And I am not asking as your general. I’m asking as two people who have believed in the same cause.”

Bitters stared at her, a little uncertain, and cocked his head to the side. “Is this the sort of thing that will get me court martial?” he asked blankly.

“No,” she assured him. “Antoine Bitters, you and I are currently the only members of the New Republic of Chorus who are alive and present. I’m expected to lead people we have fought for _years_ in a conflict that may have been aggravated by non-natives, but was _very_ real for those of us.”

“Tell me about it,” he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath.

“Bitters,” she said crisply, pulling his gaze back to her. “I need an answer. A truthful one. You are my Lieutenant. Will you follow me? Do I have that trust from you?”

The forest was quiet, more than it had any right to be. Even the wildlife of Chorus had suffered in years of conflict. Bitters had only been a child when it all had started. He barely remembered a Chorus in harmony. 

“No,” he said.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Kimball said, managing to still stand tall. “That out in the open... I think I’m going to make my first act earning all my soldiers’ trust and faith in me.”

Bitters merely raised a brow. 

* * *

She meticulously cleaned the grooves of her gloves and gauntlet, hearing the hum of ‘ _equipment maintenance’_ from FILSS in the back of her head as she does so, the blood and chips of glass from the punch of the pirate’s visor proving to be a bit tougher than she initially gave credit. 

If nothing else, Caolina could take some solace in the fact that after her last failed interrogation, the Federal soldiers at least weren’t going to mutiny against Kimball with the Freelancer backing her. 

They were in a tough spot, and she wasn’t ready for more bad news when Simmons approached her cautiously.

“Hey, uh, Carolina?” he said nervously.

She looked over her shoulder toward, him tilting her head before shaking the last of the water from her gauntlets. “What, Simmons?”

“Yeah, uh,” he rubbed at his shoulder. “I know you’re busy with the Charon dude and what not, but um, well. Let’s just say I have some _concerns.”_

Carolina blinked at him, only a little caught off guard, before smirking. “Well, don’t have concerns. We’re in a spot, but it’s fine. We’ve already made contact with Armonia and after some radio tag we’ll head out and meet up. It might not have been a successful mission but--”

Simmons held up his hands and shook his head firmly. “No no no, you don’t understand,” he said. “I’m worried about Church.”

Still not used to hearing that name so casually, Carolina tilted her head, scowling. “Epsilon? Why?”

Sighing in aggravation, Simmons shrugged. “Look, he’s being _very_ freaky. Like, different voices and he’s just in _every_ computer in the base, whether we need it or not. And he won’t use his projection, even when he’s talking straight to me. It’s. Unsettling.” He rubbed at his neck. “Do you think you could... y’know... _take him back_ or something? He’s freaking me out!”

Carolina stared at him for a moment, processing everything being said. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised, immediately walking toward the door and past Simmons, ignoring his relieved “thank god”. 

She had had the urge to take Epsilon back after they had spoken to Washington, but he had immediately jumped onto locking the safety features and exploring more of the accessible systems in the base. It was a very smart move to make, and completely natural for Epsilon given the nature of all their prior assaults on pirate bases before joining up with the Chorus troops. It’s why, despite the gnawing feeling in her gut that it wasn’t _quite_ right, she agreed with her AI.

Entering the hub Simmons and Epsilon had created out of the computers and equipment, it didn’t take long for Carolina to see exactly what the maroon Sim Trooper had been talking about.

Every electronic device was on, running -- some running faster than they could possibly have had the capacity to do -- and the drone of muttering whispers, all different in voice and tone, fluttering in the air at speeds faster than any human mind could comprehend.

She stopped, looking around the room. Her sights settled on the security camera that followed her gaze.

“Epsilon,” she said clearly, listening as the whisper of voices died down around her. “I need you to return to me. We’ll most likely be moving out soon.”

“No can do, C,” the canny voice of her partner read out from the machines. Like Simmons had told her, Epsilon didn’t bother projecting his sprite. “I’m running these things to keep our scanners optimized for several miles outside of the base.”

“That sounds like it takes a lot of your processes,” she said. “And it also sounds unnecessary. We’ve already secured the area.”

“No.”

The freelancer blinked, her eyebrows raising. “Did you just say _no_ to me, Epsilon?” she asked critically.

“Yeah, I did,” the AI returned. “I’ve got to make sure nothing interferes with this equipment and make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“It’s fine,” she snapped. “You _won’t._ Epsilon, what is this about?”

The computers whirled faster. 

“It’s my fault,” a small voice, one that wasn’t quite Epsilon, but younger, a child. “I did this.”

“Epsilon, _no,”_ Carolina growled. “Listen to me, this had nothing to do with you.”

“YES IT DID,” a more hysterical, booming voice roared. It quickly changed, becoming more flat, calm, but edging still on something almost unspeakable. “There were many anomalies picked up in the instances before the slip between the transportation cubes. I did not act on them.”

Carolina stared at the computer. Slowly saying, “And you can’t be bothered to say this to my face?”

There was a long pause. Carolina glared into the computers before beginning to think that Epsilon had chosen to go quiet. He showed, though, a cobalt flicker revealing his sprite just before her. 

“I have to do this,” Epsilon pleaded, looking her in the eyes. “Please.”

She remained quiet. “I’ll let you,” she said, “for now. But when we get back to Armonia, Epsilon... we’re having a talk.”

He faded, the computers continued their work. Carolina stood in wait for him, intending to wait until it was time to leave altogether, but the silence was interrupted by a large commotion from the base’s courtyard. 

“The hell?” she muttered, heading out with just one look toward the space Epsilon had occupied. 

* * *

Kimball watched as the crumpled man fell from the top of the base to the courtyard before her. The pirate’s body had just limply collided with the earth, causing Bitters and the Federal soldiers to back away cautiously from it. 

Agent Carolina exited the base, an exaggerated roll of her head taking her from the bloodied and broken pirate to the general with bloodstained hands. 

There was an ominous quiet from everyone. 

“You interrogated him in front of the soldiers?” Carolina asked critically at long last.

Kimball reached to her pocket, removing a rag and quickly cleaning her armor. “I did,” she said darkly. “They’re sending a second wave to attack us while we’re down, that’s why he didn’t feel the need to talk to you, Agent Carolina.” She looked out to everyone. “And if _anyone_ has any questions, state them now. If _not_ then gather all usable equipment and prepare to march. We’re leaving here before the mercenaries have the chance to show up.”

She waited before reaching for the rifle at her back. “No questions? _Good._ Get moving.” She looked down to Simmons and Carolina. “Signal Armonia. Tell them we’re coming.”


	8. Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... apologize head of time for my cruelty.

The soldiers stared at him rather blankly -- all News, so not like the men and women he helped Wash and Doyle train during their time working alongside the Federal Army, so he was certain that it was all Grif’s fault that they were so unprepared for his directives -- but none flinched back or completely ignored orders. 

If anything, they seemed outright confused.

“But... Colonel,” one of the tan-and-black soldiers spoke up, helmet tilting slightly, “I’m not sure what knocking out this wall for this one base would accomplish for prepping Crash Site Bravo while we’re here...”

“And that, soldier, would be why you’re not a colonel!” he snapped readily. “And back talking your C.O.? _Completely diabolical.”_

In something of a panic, the soldier raised his hands up, his fellow soldiers casually sidestepping from his position.

“No, Sir, I mean... I mean. That’s not what I was trying to do...”

“If you must press on with this insubordination,” Sarge began, shifting his shotgun to the unified jump of the troops, “as a leader -- which I am, and you’re not, and Grif is _certainly_ not -- you have to be prepared to prioritize. To organize. Then organize what you prioritize so that it is prioritized organizationally.” The soldiers looked to each other stiffly. “And when that is all said and done, you _will know_ that any leader worth their merit prioritizes fortifying their stronghold against all else!”

The soldiers seemed taken aback. Slowly, one tilted their head and raised a hand. “Okay, but what does fortifying the canyon have to do with knocking out this wall?”

“Aren’t any of you listening!?” Sarge growled, outraged. “We’re improving the pitiful conditions of _Red Base!_ It currently doesn’t at all meet the standards of Red Army Operations!”

Completely confused, the soldiers turned toward each other, shrugging and muttering, “Red Army? What?”

“Great Julius Caesar!” Sarge bellowed, fully worked up by this point, waving his shotgun. “Have you soldiers never been under an actual leader’s orders before? I would be better off taking my complaints directly to the wall by this point!” Turning directly to the wall, ignoring the quizzical looks of the soldiers, he focused all his current rage. “You! Wall! _I don’t like you!”_

“What are you guys doing over here!? You’re echoing all over the valley!” Grif snapped, coming over from the makeshift station Doctor Grey had made out of Wash’s training cave. 

Sarge turned, somewhat inwardly relieved to have something more favorable than a wall to set his rage on.

Grif stopped short, glaring right back at Sarge. “Oh. Nevermind, I think I can probably guess,” he muttered.

“Captain...” one of the soldiers spoke up, looking uncomfortable. “Colonel Sarge is... ordering us to take out one of the walls of this facility?”

“Shoot it down, specifically,” a second soldier piped up.

“Christ,” Grif moaned, looking critically at Sarge. “ _How_ are you still on about this? I mean, seriously? It’s been a year. We don’t live here anymore--”

“Grif!” Sarge howled. “It’s this lackluster attitude that proves your ineptitude for leadership. How can you _not_ be prioritizing fortifying our base at this time?”

“Because I’m already ordering everyone else to fortify a whole goddamn canyon, you senile bastard!” Grif screamed back, hands thrown in the air. “How are you so oblivious to the fact that we’re fucking _stranded_ , _again_ , but this time we have an army of badass pirates and mercs who want to skin us alive? There’s not even a Blue Army here, and you’re still going on about _Red Base!_ It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense! You’re not paying attention,” Sarge growled. “We don’t have enough ammunition or men to completely fortify the entire canyon! We need to localize our resources so that we’re not vulnerable to a flushing out attack that would further divide our troops.”

Grif and the News stared at him quietly. 

“Oh,” one of the young soldiers said.

“That’s... Okay, fine, that’s a _point_ ,” Grif said begrudgingly. “But why Red Base? Why not the caves where Doctor Grey has our injured soldiers? Or Blue Base which is already bigger, fortified, and located next to the radio tower?”

Sarge blinked, attempting but unable to swallow down the outrage he felt. 

“Grif, you _dare_ to ask me to set _one foot in Blue Base!”_ Sarge screamed.

“I fucking knew it!” Grif snarled in kind. “You’re crazy. You’re crazy and I hate you. You’re going to get us all killed!”

“Only those who don’t know how to follow orders!” Sarge snapped, turning on his heel to face the New Republic soldiers again. “Now, get started on shooting down that wall!”

The soldiers fell silent. 

“Um... I kind of like the suggestion about Blue Base...” one spoke up.

“Yeah, and standing under that wrecked ship’s exhaust has been making my stomach hurt... I don’t really want to _sleep_ under it or anything...”

Grif just stared directly at Sarge, expression set. “Let it go, Sarge,” he said. 

“I am checking on the Doctor,” Sarge announced, teeth grinding. “I expect that wall down when I get back!”

He left, huffing, and ignoring the fact that he still didn’t hear guns blaring into the side of Red Base as he headed toward the caves.

*

Doctor Grey was singing as she cleans her supplies, the remaining soldiers in the makeshift infirmary looking rather concerned as she did so. It sounded like sweet music to Sarge, literally, so he wasn’t entirely certain about the expressions he was seeing on the others.

These soldiers made no sense. 

“What’s up, Doc?” Sarge called as he neared her station.

Blinking in surprise, Doctor Grey whipped around to look at him. “Oh! Hello!” she said, smile widening. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon, Colonel Sergeant,” she said cheerfully. “Unless... are there injuries? Specifically from buckshot?”

Miserably, Sarge sighed. “I’m afraid not. Though the moment I see a pirate, I’ll be sure to send them the party favors,” he responded before looking through the sights of his weapon. “Right in the gut!”

“Interesting,” Doctor Grey said. “I was more concerned about our own soldiers being filled with, ahem, _party favors._ But I’m happy to hear your sentiment, actually.”

Sarge tilted his head. “Don’t get me wrong,” he sighed, shouldering his weapon, “I am very much considering going back there and introducing some of them _aggravatingly insincere excuses of soldiers_ to my version of a court martial--”

“Please don’t,” she interjected. 

“--but it’s not _them_ that truly bother me,” he grumbled. “No, no. If I was honest with myself -- which every great leader is, therefore _I_ am -- it’s that no good, lazy _Grif_ that has led these men--”

“And women.”

“--to this miserable and troubling state as soldiers,” Sarge shook his head. “Unfortunate.”

Emily smiled softly at him, putting a delicate hand on his gauntlet. “Sergeant, if I may, I believe the aggravation you’re feeling is really more to do with how your own men -- who have been under your command for a _very_ long time now -- are seeming to grow into their own positions of leadership now. You’re subconsciously questioning if they’re truly needing you anymore.”

“No, it’s not that,” he sulked, shaking his head. “It’s definitely Grif. Grif and his poor, sad inabilities to lead that will lead certainly to all of our destruction.”

She sighed. “Well. Maybe. But perhaps he only needs a _little_ encouragement from you? A little faith that he can do it? And, just maybe, you _do_ want to give it to him, too?”

Sarge looked up, glaring at her. “Woman, have you listened to anything I’ve said?” he asked critically. “Because you’re describing just the opposite!”

Shaking her head, she put her hands on her hips. “Sergeant, I have been studying people for a _very_ long time,” she said clearly. “I might not understand why other people feel certain ways or do certain things for myself, but I know how to identify what people are willing to do _for each other.”_ Her eyes glistened. “You Red and Blue soldiers act like you feel different, but I’ve watched and I’ve learned that you all quite easily have one of the strongest bonds between so-called acquaintances and enemies that I have ever seen. The way your units have united as one for each other and for the people of Chorus has been an inspiration for our own soldiers to work together after years of conflict. And I think you and Captain Grif are more alike than you realize.”

The Red soldier stared at her. 

“Me and Grif? Alike?” he asked. 

“Is that all you took from that speech?” 

“Why, if you weren’t so goshdarned pretty, I would be outright insulted!” he howled.

Doctor Grey blinked. Her cheeks growing slightly red. “Oh. Well. I’m flattered. I think.”

“As I hoped you would be! Despite being insulted,” Sarge returned readily.

The doctor’s mouth opened to respond, but they both flinched back and turned toward the exit, same as the injured soldiers. There was the echo of an explosion on the opposing side of the canyon. Then gunfire followed.

“Oh my god, they came back!” Doctor Grey screeched.

“Doctor Grey, find cover!” Sarge commanded, running past the injured soldiers. “Everyone with a trigger finger at the ready! We’re at war! YAHOO!”

* * *

Andersmith counted three directions at least that fire was coming from by the time he was able to find cover at the aptly named Red Base. He nodded to some other soldiers before noticing Captain Grif was among them. He was digging through a few boxes of supplies.

“Fuck, they’re all just junk from Sarge and Wash’s took boxes,” he growled. “Where the hell was this stuff when we were trying to fix the radio? ‘Leaders know how to organize’ _my ass!_ He doesn’t--”

“Sir!” Andersmith called over the sound of the other New Republic soldiers struggling to return fire. 

Grif turned to look Andersmith directly in the eye. “What?”

“We were the nearest landing company to the capital,” Andersmith reminded him. “They were sending round transport for evac after our last contact with them. If we don’t reach them soon, we’re going to be leading more soldiers to slaughter.”

A few of their fellow soldiers looked back to the Captain as well.

“But if we stop them we won’t be getting reinforcements or a ride home,” the orange soldier returned sharply.

The former rebels looked silently to one another. 

“How many more soldiers back home are worth just ten of us here?” one finally spoke up.

His stomach dropped, John could feel his throat dry. Months ago, dying for the cause of the New Republic had been an acceptable casualty. Now, knowing what they all knew, making sure as many people survived as possible was the main objective. 

“Goddammit,” Grif muttered, head dropped. He looked up to Andersmith directly. “Smith. Follow me. We’re going to the radio.”

“Yessir.”

“ _Fast._ I’m not getting shot or carrying you,” Grif said, rummaging through the junk of Red Base before finding what appeared to be the dented hood of a Warthog. “Okay, grab the other end. We’ll use this as cover.”

“Uh, yessir,” he responded. 

*

The simplest ideas are sometimes the more ingenious ones. 

Andersmith followed Captain Grif’s painstakingly slow pace as they crawled through the firing field. The canyon was filled with explosion and gunfire, the shouting of soldiers. It might not have been as suffocating if the noises didn’t echo back and forth against the canyon walls to the point that discerning direction was nauseating. 

Captain Grif just kept muttering under his breath ad they headed toward the radio. 

The younger soldier tried to tuck himself more under the metal sheet as a bullet whizzed by them, making the Captain jump and pause their progress yet again. 

“Ah, fuck,” Grif growled, jumping along with Andersmith when a second bullet pelted their cover, denting the metal. “If they’ve got one of those disintegrating lasers and they aim it at this thing, we’re screwed.”

Andersmith felt an encompassing chill at the sentiment. He’d heard about those weapons, horror stories really, form other soldiers, but his squad had never come across one. Yet.

He pushed back the concern he immediately felt for Antoine, Charlie, and Katie at even the barest thought of his crew. It wasn’t the time for these feelings. 

They simultaneously pushed back to keep the metal erect as four more bullets knocked into them. They didn’t pierce the metal, but the dented it bad, and the pang that hit Captain Grif’s shoulder sent the man flinching backward.

“Captain?” Andersmith called.

“Oh fuck am I hit did I get shot oh shit shit-- no. Wait no I didn’t,” Grif looked over his shoulder. “Christ, that hurt like a real sonova--”

Not more than fifteen feet away, a frag bomb blew them back. 

“Andersmith, cover!” Grif snapped, rolling under a stack of sandbags by Blue Base. The New Republic soldier followed, not daring to think of how close the last few shots toward them were at his head. 

Grif leaned his head back against the sandbags and groaned. “Jesus Christ, this is too much.”

“We’re pinned down, Sir,” Andersmith said quickly, attempting to keep the Captain in the present reality.

It worked somewhat, Grif immediately shifting his gaze to Andersmith and growling out, “I’m fucking _aware_ , Smith.”

A blast of return fire from the infirmary caves drew their attention away from the exchange momentarily. It sounded like a Warthog, and knowing the C.O. even as little as Andersmith did, he was willing to bet that that’s exactly what it was.

“Grif!” Sarge’s voice called over the radios. “We need to unify the troop’s positions.”

“And retreat, I’m aware!” Grif snapped. 

“Retreat? Do you think we’re cowards!?”

Andersmith looked worriedly to his Captain just as the orange armored man smacked his own visor and released a long, shaky sigh. “Whatever. Listen to me, Sarge, we can’t rally. Half the soldiers are across the canyon held up at Blue Base, the others are with you in the caves and infirmary.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Sarge grouched.

“Don’t fucking start,” Grif snapped. “I’m with Smith, we’re trying to get to the radio to warn Wash and the people they deployed to not come to Bravo because it’s a trap.”

“Good idea. Getting reinforcements would ruin our opportunities to win the battle for ourselves!”

“That’s not what this is about!” Grif screeched.

Andersmith’s brow furrowed. “Also, Sirs,” he spoke up, drawing Grif attention to him, “I’ve been pinpointing the pirates’ positions. They started out at different corners of the canyon, but I think the three of them that have been firing are converged toward the radio tower. I think they know what we’re attempting to do.”

“Great, good news,” the captain muttered into his hand.

“Fantastic news!” Sarge exclaimed. “Now I can take all three out in one go!”

“Um, not at your current position, Colonel,” Andersmith replied. “You’re on the opposite side of the central pillar they’re positioned at.”

“Then it’s settled,” the robust man huffed over the radio. “Grif, get your keister over here and drive the Warthog over to the radio tower.”

Andersmith blinked and looked over to Grif who didn’t so much as move. 

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening,” Grif said, tone almost defeated. “Sarge, we’re _pinned down_. Even if I thought that was a good idea -- which, for the record, I _don’t_ \-- there’s no way I could make it over to you without getting my face shot off!”

There was a pause.

“In that case,” Sarge said, “Grif, I’m telling you to _get your keister over here pronto!”_

“NO!” Grif snarled. “Stop trying to get people killed! Specifically me!”

A slew of incomprehensible language flew over the radio before it abruptly shut off. 

Andersmith looked wearily toward Grif. “Is... everything alright?”

“No, we’re being led by a lunatic,” Grif grunted. “But thanks for finally noticing that there’s not a whole lot going on upstairs for the old--”

The ridiculously loud noise of accordions blaring filled the canyon with the secondary rumble of an engine firing up. 

“Oh, no,” Grif said, barely more than a whisper, before scrambling to his feet, crouching closer to the end of the sandbag cover. “Sarge! You moron! Don’t fucking charge--”

There was a yelp of noise as the Warthog tore a trail through the canyon, swerving past their position and back around, facing the cliff side that Andersmith had just been talking about.

The lone red driver crawled through the back of the Warthog, climbing to the mounted turret and unleashing fire on the apparent position of he shooters. With only a few return shots, the canyon quieted down. 

“And that,” Sarge called, leaping down from the Warthog, “is how it’s done, sons.” He sent a specific glare toward Grif as the captain stood up from the wall.

They held each other’s glares for a moment before Sarge turned and began climbing to the radio tower. 

Other soldiers across the canyon were hesitantly looking out to watch their leader as he began to fiddle with the equipment. 

“Is anyone hurt? Who needs a doctor?” Doctor Grey could be heard calling out from the complete other side even as the radio loudly sounded.

“Command? Come in Command!” Sarge growled into the radio. “This is Crash Site Bravo. We want no tango with other parties. Turns out, everything was a trap--”

A single shot broke the silence, catching both Andersmith and Grif by surprise and causing a bodily flinch.

 _“SARGE!”_ Grif screamed, racing out from behind Blue Base toward the radio, but not even coming close as the Red leader disappeared into ash.

Then all hell broke lose. 

* * *

He just _stared_ at the platform before him. It was empty after just an _instant_ of not being. 

Sarge was there. Then Sarge was gone.

Grif couldn’t feel. He couldn’t _hear._ He couldn’t _taste_ the dryness of his mouth. He couldn’t _see_ the spattering of bullets and shrapnel around him. 

His body was immune to the world. 

Then he was angry. He was _enraged.  
_

Before any action was even fully registered in his mind, Dexter Grif was swinging into the Warthog and tearing around the cliff facing where the gunfire had hailed from. He flinched but only slightly when holes began to riddle the glass inches from his person. 

The black armored pirate had just turned to get out of the way before Grif ground his foot against the peddle and stirred into the man, then into the wall of the canyon. 

There was a choking noise from the hired gun as he was pressed between the grill of the Warthog and the rock of the cliff wall. Grif, without every looking away from his target, shifted to reverse, then to drive, and pinned the man again, foot stomping on the six pedals. 

“Ah, fuck,” the man choked as he was rammed into again. 

“You fucker,” Grif seethed, ignoring the gas billowing from the revving towers. His teeth gnashed in fury. “You-you _fucker_ you... you _killed Sarge._ You... _you!!!”_

 _“Grif!”_ Doctor Grey screamed, rushing from the side. 

The Warthog screeched in resistance as he pirate coughed and beat on the hood before growing limp, unable to try to escape any further. His armor wasn’t breaking anytime soon, but the Warthog probably could.

Ignoring Doctor Grey, Grif stood up and aiming his pistol at the pirate. The man just stared back at him until--

_Click.  
_

They all stood their grounds silently, no one so much as breathing, before Grif loosened his hand, allowing the gun to fall to the side. 

He felt... numb.

“I didn’t bring the extra ammunition,” he whispered, falling to his knees on the dash of the Warthog. 


	9. Intermission 1

He watched, barely visible from the shadows even without his camouflage unit activated. He didn’t need to be seen during this. It was _Felix’s_ time to take focus once again.

Locus was only there to ensure that every last soldier who arrived at the radio jammer did not leave it alive. Out of the 50 who had arrived, one remained. 

The one Felix was entertaining.

He drug the soldier by her hair, the fight long having left her and stopped only a few feet from the incinerator the Charon scientists had been utilizing. Felix dropped her, the fight long since having left her, and stepped back. 

When the soldier breathed, Felix stomped his foot down on her plated chest and edged her body closer toward the flaming contraption head first. She let out a windless screech, cheeks still swollen from her interrogation. 

“Now,” Felix said sweetly enough, blade twirling between his fingers, “are you _absolutely_ certain that there’s nothing else to tell me? About Armonia, the Freelancers, those annoying Sim Troopers? _Any_ of them?”

She panted, glaring at him. Locus had to admit he was impressed. But then again, after years of “working” the Federal Army, it wasn’t exactly as if he was unused to a stubborn soldier or two in their ranks. 

Felix, ever impatient, tapped his foot against the dented armor of her chest, head tilting back and forth to the click of his tongue. He had grown bored of their prey. And, as usual, that was when he left himself open the most.

Locus’ eyes narrowed. It was one of the many aspects of his partner that Locus personally found _unacceptable.  
_

The soldier spat a bloody wad at Felix’s chest. There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation between it landing and Felix’s kick, landing the torso of the soldier into the incinerator. 

She spasmed only for a moment before what was left of her remained motionless. Locus watched, Felix did not, having turned and begun wiping off his chest plate in aggravation. 

“She was a fun one, I liked her,” Felix said fondly. 

“You took too long,” Locus growled. Then, lowly, added, “As _usual.”_

Felix turned his wide, toothy grin at him, eyes glistening with something dark and menacing. “Oh, cheer up some, Locus,” Felix responded, a flippant turn of his wrist. “We were too late coming back from our powwow with Control to be with the welcoming party, so I had to make our assistance count.”

Locus merely watched as Felix passed him. “Our objective was to eliminate the population which landed at this site. It didn’t require showmanship. Only results.”

The other mercenary turned sharply on his heel, knife pointed to Locus. “Fine. Results. Here are your results, Locus: _they’re dead._ The fact that you’re too bored to get amusement from these assignments anymore doesn’t mean jack shit to me. But _I_ , for one, am still enjoying myself. So stop pretending to have the higher ground.”

Fists clenched, Locus stood still. “Don’t point that at me unless it’s a _threat_ , Felix. We’ve been over this.”

“Hey, hey, you’re right, partner,” Felix said, spinning the knife back before slamming it into its holster. 

it was a start at least. More than he usually could pressure Felix to doing without a long ensuing battle. He would take it.

“Fifty out of fifty stragglers dealt with,” Felix sighed, looking out of the complex. “Guess by your books that’s a success.” He didn’t turn, but Locus could sense how the former soldier tensed, his atmosphere changing swiftly. “Too bad there wasn’t anyone worth a damn among these guys.”

“It was always going to be a possibility with our strategy,” Locus responded. “We had no way of controlling where the division of coordinates would send who. And after the one unit backfired on them, we’re fortunate that they arrived at the coordinates we arranged at all.”

“Sucks for our fifth team,” Felix snorted. “Nothing but snow and catching colds for them. Ah well,” Felix’s eyes flickered toward Locus. “Guess you’ll get another shot at your precious Freelancers, though.”

Locus stared back, not dignifying the dig with a response.

“The strategy is to _divide_ and _conquer_ , Felix,” Locus said lowly. “One would hope with this strategy to see just that.”

“Meaning?” Felix yawned.

“When broken into even less cohesive wholes,” Locus said lowly, “we can almost be sure that not only will _we_ be destroying our foes, but they will be destroying themselves from within.”

“Kinky,” Felix chuckled. “And I guess you’re right. Besides, even if they haven’t already started clawing each other’s eyes out, well, we’ve still got my little informant to stir the pot at the capital...”


	10. Landfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lopez translations at the end notes for those curious. I personally don't think they're all that necessary to the events of the story but they were fun.

"Idiotas.”

He had been skeptical from the moment his limbs had come to a sparking halt in the aftermath of the explosion and the various emergency respondents had looked at him the way scared gerbils looked at the family cat. He had been _utterly_ resolved to his fate when they mishandled his parts and dumped him in the garage. And he had beenexpectant when the army engineers just looked to each other with confused shrugs hours later.

It wasn’t that Lopez entirely blamed the soldiers of Chorus for not understanding how to repair him properly, it was a side effect of being a highly advanced android compiled by the genius of an idiot, it was just that, like anyone else who dealt with him, they spoke around him as if he couldn’t understand them.

But eh. Maybe it wasn’t that they were anti-robites. Maybe they were just racist.

“Uhhh, we’re sorry, Sir,” the younger engineer said, rubbing at his grease covered face as he watched Lopez’s newly articulating arm beginning to repair the rest of himself piece by piece. “We’re not entirely sure what you are saying.”

“Nadie lo hace,” Lopez said blankly as he rotated his second wrist. If he could scowl, he would have as it glitched just before ending rotation. He lowered the arm back to the table and reached for the soldering iron. “Hablo de mi diversión. Es el futuro. _Usted_ es tonto para no saber español."

The two grease monkeys looked at him with not a single inkling of what was being said. Lopez rotated his wrist completely and nodded to it before reaching over the table to grab his leg. 

“Uh, what?” one finally muttered, scratching at his head. 

Lopez counted out the wires to discern what was or was not disconnected. He didn’t even bother to look at the engineers to repeat evenly, “Idiotas.”

“Hey, uh, foreman?” the younger said, looking to the other. “I don’t know what he’s saying... but do you get the impression he’s... making fun of us?”

Looking up just as he reconnected the socket of his leg, Lopez focused on the two. “Mierda,” he said, a bit aghast. “Usted es más consciente que mis creadores. Pero eso no dice mucho.”

“What” the foreman said with no sense of irony. 

Lopez sighed. “No importa.”

“Heyyyyyy _Lopez!”_ a sing-song voice called from the streets, leading to the company of three to look to the open garage door, though it wouldn’t have required a solitary extra syllable for Lopez to know _exactly_ who was on the other end of that voice. “Where are you, mi amigo?” 

“¡Maldita sea!” Lopez groaned, finishing the readjustment of his final limb with a click. He looked to the clueless soldiers. “Esperaba sólo el Freelancer sobrevivió.“

Sure enough, though, Donut came directly through the door, his helmet oddly off, exposing his collection of fresh bruises along with the familiar old scars. Lopez merely sighed. 

It was hard to give Sarge competition for least favorite, but Lopez was always surprised with how much of a try Donut seemed willing to give it. Not that any of their crew of brightly colored soldiers managed to get on the robot’s good side.

Though Doc was at times close when he was also attempting to take over the galaxy. 

“Lopez! _There_ you are!” Donut said with a wide grin. “Buena vista que tiene.“

Lopez just stared at him for a moment before growling out, “Deje de insultar a mi lengua. Ya estamos utilizando traducción internet suficiente.“

Donut smiled brightly. “Honky dorey, Mr. Grouchy Robot Pants. Thanks for asking.”

“Me da igual,” Lopez muttered before reaching for his weaponry and beginning to restock.

“I’m glad to see you up and about, Lopez,” Donut continued, coming over to the robot’s side, head bobbing in his walk. “You might be slim and fashionable as a head, but you’re definitely less useful in the battlefield when that happens! And we all know that joke of you having a useless robot head in the battle field is _such_ a 2007 joke. Can you say 'da-ay-ay- _ted.’”_

“No. No con esta configuración de idioma,” Lopez grunted in return. 

“Yeah, exactly,” Donut nodded. “Are you done suiting up? I don’t want to sound like I’m rushing you or anything, but I’d like for you to hurry so we can go find Wash.” The soldier’s bright blue eyes stared into Lopez earnestly. “I’m worried about him. I guess he’s injured or something and, well, he’s being _Wash_ and not taking care of himself. Can you believe that?”

Lopez, perplexed, looked at him. “¿El tipo que nos disparó? Sí.“

“Helping Wash and the others is _exactly_ what I plan to do, Lopez,” Donut responded immediately, a determined smirk on his face. “I’m glad you share my absolutely positive attitude! Now, c’mon. We need to go to the War Room and put that Big Bad Mr. Freelancer to bed!”

Groaning, the robot prepared to clearly state his case for exactly _not_ doing that on the deaf ears of all those around him, but found the sound of racing boots interrupted him. 

He and Donut looked to the soldiers that entered from the street, winded.

“Private Donut! And... uh. Mr. Roboto?” the heavily breathing soldier said, a curious look sent Lopez’s way. 

“¡No mames!” he groaned in return.

“Lopez!” Donut said, aghast. “I’m sure he knows that silver plating is _so last season!_ No need to get nasty.” He then looked, exuberantly, to the soldier. “Go on, soldier! Tell us the news. I hope it’s good news.”

“You’re wanted in the War Room! Immediately!” the soldier gasped out. “There’s been a call from one of the landing sites.

Immediately, Lopez and Donut both tensed. 

“Uh oh,” Donut whispered.

* * *

Listening to the static after Sarge’s last transmission was one of the hardest things Doyle thought he had been forced to do since having leadership thrust upon him such a short time ago. His grip on the back of the communicator chair had been bruising.

Then their subsequent transmission came in from an unidentified soldier at Bravo... and Doyle realized it wasn’t the hardest thing he had to do after all.

The information whirled in his mind. 

“Colonel Sarge has been killed in the line of fire.”

Those words... they were entirely too much. And he was waiting on their own Reds and Blues still located in Armonia to meet with him so that Doyle could _somehow_ find a way to break the news to them. And Doyle was _very_ poor at breaking bad news.

He almost overlooked as a secondary transmission began to come in, only barely managing to direct a soldier to answer the message.

“This is Artificial Intelligence Unit Epsilon from landing coordinates Juliett-Victor-Golf,” a very flat, robotic tone spoke over the speakers. It was barely recognizable as the tiny blue AI Doyle had come to associate with their curious friends.

“Oh, well, carry on,” Doyle spoke up, a little lost for words.

“Received information of a secondary wave of pirates headed to our location. Currently are moving out. I will personally attempt to maintain radio contact. Until contacted with different coordinates do not -- I repeat, _do not_ \-- send reinforcements.”

“Understood more than you know,” Doyle uttered, feeling the quiver of shock returning to his system. “Crash Site Bravo--”

“Breaking up. Will radio in shortly,” the AI interjected before fading out. 

Doyle stared at the computer, still attempting to process when the soldier turned to his side, looking seriously at the general.

“Sir?” the soldier spoke up slowly. “Does that mean that both groups we have located are now going to be at unknown coordinates? How are we supposed to bring them back if we don’t know where _either_ of them are?”

Staring back, Doyle sighed. “My dear boy,” he responded, “at the moment, that is the least of my concerns.”

He turned at the sound of approaching feet, his gaze meeting Donut, Lopez, and Washington as they entered the War Room, Washington looking as though he had not taken Carolina up on her advice about resting. 

“Did you hear something?” Donut asked.

“Is it Tucker and Caboose?” Wash asked immediately. “The other war parties, you’ve heard from them?”

Doyle flinched. “I am... afraid it is news from our other fronts,” Doyle said lowly. “There seems to have been a second wave of insurgents... both parties are on the move.”

“Oh, gosh,” Donut gasped. 

“Were there any casualties?” Wash asked darkly. “We didn’t have soldiers to spare.”

Feeling his throat grow dry, Doyle took a deep breath. The eyes of his three guests studied him carefully. 

“I am afraid there was a casualty,” Doyle admitted, words fumbling. 

“Did Sarge shoot Grif?” Donut asked genuinely.

“Probablemente,” the robot muttered.

Wringing his hands, Doyle felt his mouth open, but nothing came out. He just stared back. 

Washington’s gaze became harder, more intent. “General?” he asked pointedly.

“I am afraid the singular casualty was at Crash Site Bravo...” the general continued, as prompted. “It... I am so _very_ sorry... but it appears... the Colonel did not survive.”

The three grew deathly silent.

Donut, face growing ashen, slowly tilted his head back, eyes impossibly widening. “I... I... _what_...”

Lopez was like a statue, not a word in response.

Washington radiated with a _fearsome_ energy. “ _What?”_

“I am so _very_ sorry, but we just received the call,” Doyle said, flinching at their concentrated attention. “I don’t know all of the details but it was mid-transmission and... from what we do know he seemed to have... gone quickly. He was... was hit with one of the alien weapons...”

The lightish-red soldier’s face broke, glassy eyes filling with tears, nose already beat red, “I... But... He... He was _vaporized_ but... How...” He turned, face streaming with tears. “Wash?”

The black and yellow Freelancer remained very quiet, seemingly turning he information over in his head. “You’re saying he was... vaporized?” Wash asked darkly.

“Yes,” Doyle said, barely more than a whisper.

Without any further warning, Donut broke into a shrill cry, crumbling over and falling to his knees. 

Wash, snapping out of whatever trance he had been brought into from the information, turned quickly to the other soldier, dropping to his knees beside Donut, putting a hand on he Red’s back as Donut balanced his hands against the ground. “Donut, breathe,” Wash directed.

The younger soldier gasped between heaves, still balling even as he leaned into Wash’s chest, continuing the crying in broken gasps. 

“Madre de dios,” Lopez whispered at the scene. 

Doyle felt much the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lopez translations (in order of appearance):
> 
> *"Idiotas" = "Idiots."
> 
> *"Nadie lo hace." = "Nobody does."  
> "Hablo de mi diversión. Es el futuro. Usted es tonto para no saber español.” = "I talk for my amusement. It's the future. YOU are stupid for not knowing Spanish."
> 
> *"Idiotas" x2
> 
> *"Mierda" = "Holy shit."  
> "Usted es más consciente que mis creadores. Pero eso no dice mucho.” = "You are more aware than my creators. But that's not saying much."
> 
> *"No importa." = "Nevermind."
> 
> *"¡Maldita sea!" = "Damn!"  
> “Esperaba sólo el Freelancer sobrevivió.“ = "I was hoping the Freelancer survived."
> 
> **** Donut translation: "Buena vista que tiene." = "Good view you have." (reality) = "Good to see you." (Donut vision)
> 
> *“Deje de insultar a mi lengua. Ya estamos utilizando traducción internet suficiente.“ = "Don't insult my tongue. We are using internet translation enough."
> 
> *"Ma da igual" = (roughly) "Whatever"
> 
> *“No. No con esta configuración de idioma,” = "No. Not on this language setting."
> 
> *“¿El tipo que nos disparó? Sí.“ = "The guy who shot us? Yes."
> 
> *"¡No mames!” = "No fucking way!"


	11. Rainforest

"Are we there yet?”

Tucker’s grip could not have been tighter on the hilt of his sword if he tried. And he _was_ trying every time he heard Caboose open his mouth. He gritted his teeth.

In the passenger’s seat, Caboose was lazily blinking ahead, looking through the window shield to the arid landscape ahead of them. His grip on Freckles was as snug but appreciative as one would expect for a pet dog, which was accurate in its own sense. 

Caboose fidgeted. Then, “Hey, Tucker? Are we there yet?”

Turning his head head so fast his helmet audibly clicked against his armor’s shoulder piece, Tucker snarled, “ _Caboose!_ Does it _look_ like we’re at the capital yet?”

In return, the blue space marine looked at Tucker and tilted his head. “Now, Tucker. How am I supposed to know that? I’m not driving!”

“No we’re not at the capital yet! Goddamn!” Tucker growled out, turning forward once more, hunching even further over the sword and steering wheel. 

For their parts, the Chorus soldiers were fairly reserved in the ship behind them. Palomo was still spinning in circles in his seat. Jensen was on the floor with her equipment, arched over the radio and fiddling with a determined ferocity. Golov was very keenly sorting through the weapons hey had gathered from Crash Site Alpha. 

But, still, the tension was fairly apparent. At least to Tucker.

“Hey, uh, Tucker,” Caboose began, foot tapping as he petted Freckles. “Are we going to stop soon and... um. Use the bathroom. And get lunch. And maybe take Freckles on a walk at the rest stop because he’s been a very good boy on the trip so far, but I don’t want him to get cramped up or he’ll be up all night when we stop at the motel.”

“I told you to go before we started, Caboose!” Tucker growled. “We are _not_ stopping until we get to Armonia.”

“Um, I don’t know about _everyone_ else,” Palomo began, feet dragging against the floor. 

“Palomo,” Tucker grunted in warning.

The young lieutenant continued, “But I am definitely thirsty and could use a water break.”

“Are you being serious right now?” Tucker demanded. 

“Well it’s not exactly like we’ve gotten the air conditioner working in this thing!”

“It’s an _alien cruiser_ , Palomo,” Jensen said, looking up from her radio. 

“Yeah, Palomo,” Tucker joined in, looking over his shoulder. “It’s a fucking alien spaceship. Try being appreciative of the fact that we’re going over a hundred miles an hour across this desert and drink from your canteen.”

His lieutenant became fidgety, scuffing his boots across the floor as he squirmed. “Well, uh, see. The _problem_ with that would be, you know, I really thought this trip in an awesome spaceship would be... _shorter._ So I kind of drank all of it? Just a little bit?”

Tucker’s eyes flickered over his shoulder before he smacked himself against his helmet. “You _knew_ Crash Site Alpha was on the other side of the fucking planet! Why would you drink all of your canteen before we were even out of the stupid desert!? That’s just stupid!”

“I thought that the ship was faster!” Palomo defended, voice reaching higher and higher pitches. “I just think, we can all agree, when someone says they’re going to ride an alien ship, they have certain expectations. Like a warp drive.”

“You wouldn’t use a warp drive _on a planet_ , dipshit! Are you being serious right now!?” Tucker demanded. “Haven’t you seen _Star Wars?”_

“I personally would think _Star Trek_ would be more appropriate to this discussion,” Jensen slurred from the back.

“Oh my god, everyone is so nerdy right now it’s suffocating,” Tucker growled.

“Yeah, uh,Tucker,” Caboose spoke up, twirling in his seat by that point. “I think that Lieutenant Palmetto isn’t _completely_ wrong. I mean. Maybe he’s not the _only_ one out of water? Or thinks that you’re a cranky driver and should pull over and let us _stretch_ and _use the bathroom_ and _get_ _water_ and _get food_ and--”

At the very mention of food, an inhumanely loud growl came from the back, causing all to turn and face the small lieutenant. 

Jensen fidgeted. “Um. Not all of us were carrying the same supplies. Some of us didn’t get water or food because the girl utility belts are too small.”

“Wow that’s so sexist!” Palomo exclaimed.

“I know, right?” Jensen responded, shifting closer to lean in to her fellow New. “And I think the armor plating on our arms is skinnier. Like really skinnier!”

“You know, now that you mention it, I totally see that,” Palomo responded, hand thoughtfully on his chin.

Golov scoffed. “In Federal Army, men and women have equal armor protection.”

“What _ever_ , Golov,” Jensen snapped.

“Wait, everyone shut up!” Tucker responded, grabbing the “children’s” attention once more. “Jensen, are you telling me that you are _just like_ Caboose and Palomo and _also_ don’t have any water or food with you and we’ve only been traveling for, like, _three hours!?”_

Everyone grew quiet.

“I wouldn’t say _just_ like them exactly,” she muttered.

“Yeah, Captain Tucker,” Palomo piped up, “she’s got less supplies because she’s carrying the burden of an objectively broken system of segregation between genders that really doesn’t make sense in this time in the relative future.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Caboose said with a visible frown. 

Feeling a headache coming up, Tucker gritted his teeth. “Palomo?”

“Yessir?”

Tucker glared back at the lieutenant, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, okay.”

The aqua space marine looked instead to Golov, his last saving grace on this away mission. “Give me some good news, Golov,” Tucker moaned. “You’ve got water, right?”

“Of course,” Golov sniffed. “But I am not sharing.”

“Oh, please,” Tucker snorted. “You’ll share if I tell you to.”

“No, I mean,” he squirmed, eying the News. “I have only one canteen left. It won’t be but a drink for everyone. Oh!” He turned more directly to Tucker. “Sir, yours and mine together might be enough for the rest of the day.”

“Oh, yeah!” Palomo cheered, looking excitedly to Tucker.

Caboose blinked owlishly at Tucker. “Tucker, can I drink from your can-can?”

Suddenly, Tucker’s own throat felt impeccably dry. He glanced down to the canteen by his waste, shifting just enough to feel how much of the contents splashed back against his hip. Hardly a swig.

He gripped tighter to the steering wheel. “Fine,” he grumped. “One stop before Armonia -- as soon as we get to that forest cover at the end of this desert,” he said with a nod toward the window.

Everyone settled back without asking anything more about the water supply. Tucker breathed with relief. 

*

Like most of Chorus, the landscape was dry and the distance vast, but unlike the long desert they had escaped the forested area had cover. It just didn’t have much wildlife.

“Most of the animals on Chorus were brought with the first settlers when the planet was terraformed,” Jensen read off like a text book. “When the civil war started, both sides used crop yield and livestock as chips to play with.”

“That’s fucked up,” Tucker said, examining the seemingly bare forest beyond the ship. 

“Of course, didn’t help that _rebels_ started attacking government farms _before_ and cut supplies to begin with,” Golov returned, a pointed look directed at the tiny lieutenants. 

“Or, y’know, that the government rationed supplies so much during the great war that people were _literally dying of starvation,”_ Palomo hissed in return.

“Or, that no one gave _me_ anything to be angry about!” Caboose chipped in.

Rubbing at his temples, Tucker groaned. “Okay, _Jesus_ , enough already. Everything sucked on this planet and everyone fucked over each other. Welcome to real life. Let’s not forget the whole _evil corporation_ and _violent mercenaries_ that have been stringing along both of your sides this whole time, assholes.”

The soldiers silenced, but the tension didn’t so much as budge. 

Tucker sighed, waving to them. “Okay, fine, be that way. I really don’t care. But we need to spread out and find water and -- if we can find it -- food. And I’m counting on you guys for that because, newsflash, Caboose and I aren’t from around here. We don’t know shit about your planet.”

“But I suspect it’s smelly,” Caboose commented.

“Can we break up and just agree to disagree here? Get along until later?” Tucker begged. 

The three soldiers at first didn’t seem to be moving, but Palomo turned to Jensen and nodded toward the left. “C’mon, Jensen.”

The two left, Golov hesitating just a moment longer before heading right. 

Waiting until the three were out of earshot, Tucker turned to Caboose and threw up his hands. “Goddamn, dude. How are we supposed to take on _anyone_ if everyone hates each other _this badly?”  
_

“Maybe we could make a campfire and sing kumbaya?” the Blue suggested.

Tucker stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. He pressed forward. “C’mon, Caboose. Let’s try to find some water.”

“Oh, good!” Caboose exclaimed before quickly falling in line behind Tucker. “I’m glad. Freckles is very thirsty.”

“Dude, your gun isn’t-- oh, wait!” Tucker exclaimed, turning to face Caboose and the assault rifle. “Freckles! Just to be safe, do the thermal scan! Uh... _please?”_

There was a mechanical cracking before the AI responded, “Thermal Scan initialized... Beginning...”

Caboose and Tucker watched the gun curiously before there was another crack.

“Scan failure. Interference.”

“What, seriously?” Tucker groaned. “What good are you?”

“Freckles is lots of good thank you very much!!!” Caboose snapped.

“Until he tells me whether or not we’re followed by pirates, dude, he’s useless,” Tucker responded in kind. 

“Captain! Captain!”

“Ugh, now what?” Tucker sighed. “Caboose, head back to the ship _but don’t touch anything_. I’ll go see what Golov is yelling about.“

“Only under protest!” Caboose howled before turning and racing back to the ship. 

Tucker released a long breath and shook his head before heading toward the calls of the Federal soldier. 

It didn’t take long to figure out what Golov was yelling about as Tucker could hear the sound of water as he approached. Sure enough, Tucker came across the soldier by the water’s edge, red stained armor on save for his helmet as the man drank from the fresh spring. 

“Holy crap, you actually found water! Good job, Golov!” Tucker exclaimed. “Who woulda guessed the landscape would be so different right next to a desert.”

“I would say it means a storm is coming this way,” Golov responded, looking toward the near mountain range. 

Tucker blinked. “What makes you say that?”

Golov pointed to the mountain. “The desert is dry because clouds are stopped by the altitude of the mountains, yeah? This spring is small, new. I think there is a storm on the other side of these mountains. It might not make it this far but...” He looked to the forest around them. “There must be rain that makes it this far _some_ times.”

“Ugh, I hate storms,” Tucker groaned. “Caboose always freaks out and hides under the couch.”

The federal soldier didn’t respond, instead looking to the red stains on his armor. Tucker felt his stomach flip.

“Listen, Golov,” Tucker said, walking up to him, “Let me get Jensen and Palomo to fill up their canteens first and then Caboose and I’ll help you clean your armor. I don’t want to get into details, but we’re really acers at cleaning shit off armors by now.”

He turned and blinked at Tucker. “You... have seen many battles.”

Tucker awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of the black shit from Blood Gulch. “Well, not exactly. I mean we have, but it’s not what you think. Uh, like I said, soldier, no details.”

“Very well, but I shall go to the ship while the rebels are here,” Golov huffed, roughly returning his helmet to its place. 

Tucker frowned. “Hey, there aren’t _rebels_ anymore. There’s only Chorus.”

“For now,” Golov responded before turning toward the ship.

“TUCKER!!!” Caboose’s bellow could be heard from the ship.

Tucker groaned and rubbed at his face. “What _now!?”_ He looked to Golov. “C’mon, let’s see what he wants.”

It didn’t take long to see that Jensen and Palomo had also come to aid Caboose’s calls, but the blue space marine looked far from distressed even as they all came. He was just standing outside of the ship -- the ship that Tucker was just noticing lacked both an open door _and_ a glow.

“Caboose!” Tucker growled. “What the fuck did you do to my ship?”

“It’s being mean and wont’ let me in!” Caboose responded immediately.

“Maybe it automatically turned off with the key gone for so long?” Jensen suggested.

“It’s not a key, it’s a motherfucking sword,” Tucker corrected automatically, brandishing his sword. “Okay, baby, open sesame!”

The five stood in wait. The ship did not respond. 

“Huh,” Palomo said, tilting his head. “Maybe you need to hit it again?”

Tucker looked to his sword before smacking it against the hull. 

The ship sputtered and collapsed in on itself.

“What a piece of junk,” Palomo whistled.

“PALOMO!” Tucker growled, waving his sword toward the Lieutenant, making Palomo leap back. 

“So...” Caboose began slowly, “we’re... stuck out here?”

Golov rubbed at his helmet. “Fantastic.”

“At least we’re four hundred and ninety-two miles closer than we were,” Jensen attempted with a small shrug.

They stood quietly, Tucker’s mind racing, attempting desperately to think a way out of their situation. They still had no radio contact, they still didn’t know anything about the rest of the army, they still didn’t know if they were being closed in on--

“Oh, maybe this’ll give us time to check out that alien temple Jensen and I just found,” Palomo chirped.

Tucker rounded on the New Republic soldiers. “What alien temple!? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Um... we’re telling you now?” Jensen tried uneasily. 

Tucker took a deep breath and then looked seriously to the two. “Show me.”

“And then we’re making a campfire!!!” Caboose screamed in euphoria. 


	12. Cadence

Considering how many of them there were, the speed at which they took to the march was somewhat impressive to Simmons. Though he supposed that had a lot to do with the fact that he wasn’t exactly used to a _real_ army and _real_ soldiers taking orders.

He wasn’t sure if the revelation that he and everything the Reds and Blues had been fighting for for so long was all simulation had ever fully dawned on him. It was the sort of revelation that was almost beyond full comprehension. Quite literally _everything_ he knew had been a lie. 

Which, oddly enough, made him feel fairly connected to the armies of Chorus. Just like the Reds and Blues, everything they had been fighting for -- or, in some cases, against -- had been a lie as well. 

At least, it would if he got more of a sense from these guys that they accepted that reality for what it was.

Unlike Simmons and the other Freelancer sim troopers, war on Chorus had always been remarkably real. 

Maybe it was because Church had freaked the fuck out of him just a few hours before, maybe it was because of the eerie silence outside of the crunch of dirt beneath the soldiers’ feet, maybe it was because Kimball had just brutally beat a man and left his broken body behind in front of them all, but Simmons felt completely antsy and uncomfortable about everything to do with the march. 

He looked ahead, just two lines before him he could see the towering figures of Carolina and Kimball. They seemed awfully tense, though. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Simmons decided to suck it up some and jog slightly ahead, breaking rank with a few murmured apologies to the soldiers around him as he made his way toward the front. He stayed just a little behind the women.

“Hey, uh, Carolina,” he spoke up, ignoring the whir from his lung implants made at the extensive use. “Carolina! Hey. It’s me. I need to talk to you. And uh. I guess maybe Church? If he’s up for talking...”

“Not now,” Carolina responded darkly without so much as looking over her shoulder at him.

Simmons nearly skipped steps to keep in pace. “Um. Okay. But which of those is hat ‘not now’ to? Talking to you? Or talking to Church? Because if it’s talking to Church, that’s okay. I kind of need to talk to you more anyway. And it might be relevant to the radio. I just don’t know about the equipment the back of the line’s carrying. Maybe they don’t know the best way to carry it? And the conditions of the environment are probably not the best for technology regardless--”

“ _Captain Simmons!”_ Kimball barked, looking from the other side of the former Freelancer. “You are breaking line! Get back in position _or I will personally push you back into it!”_

His mouth hanging slightly ajar, Simmons took a breath in surprise. Even through Kimball’s visor, though, her stare was terrifying.

“Oh... Okay. I can see that now might not actually be the time for... _any_ kind of talking. Right?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

“NOW, Captain!” Kimball snapped.

“Yes, ma’am, General, I mean... ehhhhh Going.”

The maroon space marine turned quickly on his heels, smacking into a couple of soldiers behind him. He muttered as many apologies as he could manage before tearing off to the side, falling out of the lines completely. Everyone did their best to stare forward but all Simmons could feel were eyes regardless. 

Suddenly the same nausea he had felt in every social situation from middle school gym to Basic. He stumbled to the side and did all he could to keep upright without also throwing up in his helmet. 

He waited for the wave to finish and took a deep breath.

“Hey... uh... you alright, Captain?” 

Simmons looked up, hands still shakily on his knees, and saw Bitters standing, also outside of line. He rubbed at his helmet. “Uh... Bitters?”

“Uh, yeah?” Bitters countered.

“Shouldn’t you be in line?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

Simmons stared a Grif’s Lieutenant for a moment longer before sighing and standing straight. The boy was so much like Grif it was somewhat horrifying to Simmons. “Let’s not be smart asses for a bit and make our own line in the back,” Simmons offered.

“Yeah, sure,” Bitters responded, his tone matching his name.

They marched together, moving slowly and finding themselves in the back of the marching rows. The silence became nothing but the white noise of boots crunching soils once more. 

“Everyone’s so quiet,” Simmons finally commented. “I mean, it makes sense. Don’t want us to be tracked or anything. But... _still._ It’s like it’s fear. Not really discipline.”

“Of _course_ it’s fear, are you kidding?” Bitters asked harshly, eyes concentrated forward. “It’s Kimball. These Fed assholes already think we’re animals that lived in a cave for ten years. And she basically just tarred and feathered someone in front of them to get our respect.”

Simmons stared at the young soldier, appraising him carefully. 

“Of _course_ it’s fear,” Bitters continued. 

* * *

There was a part of Carolina -- perhaps deep in her brain more Epsilon than herself, if she was honest -- that regretted Simmons’ treatment. But she wasn’t there to hold anyone’s hands. He’d get over it.

No, she was in the front line, marching with Kimball and trying to make sure no one lost their head to the New Republic general. 

The silence following their march had droned on for hours. It was slightly unnerving, but there wasn’t more to think on the subject than that. Mostly because Carolina’s mind was an angry beehive, far more thoughts firing off each minute than she could even begin to process. And it was taking everything in her to not snap off on Epsilon for doing that to her.

She couldn’t process multiple linear thoughts in a single second like he could, but she could still receive the residual distress and emotion from it. She could feel the splitting migraine that he was “fire walling” off from her own brainwaves.

Carolina had felt something similar when she had the dual implantation of Eta and Iota, of course. She relied on that experience then to shove the thoughts back and press onward without disturbing the AI. 

Instead she concentrated on the woman beside her. 

“I’m still not convinced leaving the prisoner behind was the best option,” Carolina admitted out loud. It was a thought she (they) had carried since it had happened, but it had finally managed to boil itself to the forefront. “It’s just one more gun to have turned on us later.”

“He was a message, Agent Carolina,” Kimball said darkly, not looking to the Freelancer at all. “I had to make sure it was _loud_ , and that it was _clear.”_

“Yes. I _saw_ that,” the Freelancer returned dryly. She turned an eye temporarily toward the troops. “And judging by the reaction, you can consider that message well delivered.”

Kimball turned her head, that fearsome energy from when she stood atop the base was still there. “I’m well aware that these soldiers know about my authority now, Agent Carolina. But that was not my only message. My _other_ message was to the pirates, mercenaries, and Charon Industries when they come across their little friend again after a failed secondary assault on the soldiers of Chorus.”

It made slightly more sense. Carolina still found herself scowling, though. “And you’re not concerned about what information he could tell them after they’re reunited?”

“It won’t be anything they don’t already know,” Kimball responded easily. “Our numbers are low, we fell for their trap, there are some high ranking leaders among the troops to give them some sense of direction. Then they’ll know that we took out their men, that _we_ got untold information from their pal, and that he will ultimately be useless to them outside of that intel. And then they’ll finish the job you’re oh, so concerned about.”

Carolina narrowed her eyes. “I’m on your side, Kimball.”

The general looked to her directly. She took a breath. “I hoped you would be.”

Not sure what to say, Carolina felt her focus drop just enough for a rush of thoughts, not her own, to come clawing into her mind. She gritted her teeth, reaching up to her helmet after flinching backward.

“Carolina? What is it?” Kimball asked.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Carolina said, a little too quickly, and returned to pace. “I have to talk with Epsilon. I’m sorry to drop out of the conversation.”

“It’s fine,” Kimball responded in a tone that said anything _but_ fine.

It didn’t matter, Carolina would have to concern herself with it after she found out what the hell was happening with her AI.

She took a breath, tried to keep her vision clear as they continued the cadence, and drilled into the depths of those flashing, malfunctioning blasts of thought, stared straight into her AI’s own reflection.

 _What the fuck are you doing in here?_ Carolina demanded. _I’m not some beat down UNSC server, Epsilon. You’re messing with my head._

The AI seemed erratic, formless. He kicked around between the spaces of her skull carelessly. _Oops, sorry, C. I’ll kick over to your HUD and run through your armor instead if you’ll give me just a moment--_

 _No, Epsilon!_ she gnashed her teeth, did her best to not stumble when she almost stomped her foot in protest. _I just want you to take a break. Do you remember how to do that? Because if you don’t I can assure you I will pull you and_ force _you to have one for the rest of this march -- no access to anything but a port device.  
_

There was a tutting in her mind. _Rest when you’re dead, right, C?_

 _Epsilon,_ her mind growled in warning.

 _How about_ you _relax,_ he responded, growing bouncy and hyper -- booming. _C, don’t you realize what I just did? All that software I absorbed and ran? It worked! It worked! I just picked up on a signal -- a_ transmission _of all things from an assault rifle. Now just who does that sound like?_

“Send it to me,” Carolina demanded out loud.

_Done and done._

Kimball was staring at her curiously. Carolina turned on her heels. 

“We’re changing direction,” she announced. “We just picked up on Caboose’s AI gun. Hopefully that will mean some of our other soldiers are also with him.”

“And hopefully they are still alive,” Kimball said.

Carolina’s stomach flipped -- it took everything in her to not drop to her knees and join Epsilon in a heralding scream at the very _idea_ the general was proposing. 

Instead she just responded, “Hopefully.”


	13. Evacuate

Crash Site Bravo was silent. Nothing more than whispers had been heard in the canyon since the colonel’s death. No one dared to approach the captain about the very apparent _need_ for them to evacuate their location before yet another wave of the Charon pirates.

There wasn’t mourning, there was just silence and the deep divide between the Feds and the News. Just like there had always been.

Andersmith was positioned among the ranks of his own, standing by the Warthog that his fellow News were attempting to fix and load up to maximum capacity. He kept his rifle in his arms, but he couldn’t help but level his sites across the pass at the Fed soldiers rather than to the treacherous cliffs. 

Old habits died hard, after all. 

He couldn’t help but notice that the Feds were looking at them much the same. If they weren’t still reeling from the recent loss, Andersmith thought that he might’ve taken comfort in how alike their forces were after all.

Just as he was catching the wandering of his thoughts, Andersmith heard the vaguely familiar voice of their chief medical officer. 

“Smith! Smiiiiittttthhhhh!!! _Lieutenant Andersmith!”_

He stood in attention as Doctor Grey ran forward, hands still on her medical scanner. Andersmith raised his brow, tough the gesture was lost with his helmet on. 

“Yes, Doctor?” he asked curiously. 

“Oh, good,” the doctor cooed, stopping just short of him. “It’s a good thing you’re so tall! Makes you easy to spot in a crowd.”

“It has its advantages,” he said, slightly more stern than he meant for it. 

“I’m sure,” the doctor returned. “Lieutenant, you worked in the Red’s and Blue’s personal squad, yes? You then worked closely with Captain Grif.”

Andersmith blinked, cocked his head to the side. “I... am a member of the squad, yes, ma’am. But... I was not Captain Grif’s Lieutenant, and I wasn’t the one of our group to spend the most time with him personally.”

The doctor made a discouraging noise. “Hm. I see,” she said, folding her arms firmly. “Well, then. I won’t be able to reach out to him through a familiar comrade given our current options. That’s what you’re telling me?”

Shifting his head to the other side, Andersmith felt very confused. “I... suppose I am.”

“Alright then, Plan B,” Doctor Grey sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll have to do all the heavy lifting on my own. And that means that, until Captain Grif is feeling up to it, you’ll have to be our man in charge, Lieutenant.”

He stared at her. “Excuse me, ma’am?” he asked, flabbergasted. 

“Well, I unfortunately have a lot of duties to attend to, not to mention several of your fellow... _New Republic_ soldiers haven’t had pleasant experiences with me,” she tilted her head, “not everyone enjoys doctor visits. So it would be a strategic maneuver to elect one of their own as the current leader under my direction.”

Andersmith continued to stare. “But the Federal soldiers would never listen to a New Republic soldiers. Let alone just a _lieutenant._ Many of them are decorated above me--”

“Which is why I’m also in charge,” she said with a flip of her wrist. “I appointed you. That makes us even. Until we get our Captain up and moving. You’d think having an uninvolved third party as leader would make things easier, but so far it’s been rather messy, hasn’t it?”

The young soldier tightened his grip on his weapon at that slide. “Doctor, he lost his c.o. just an hour ago.”

“And we’ll lose _all_ of our lives if we can’t get it together, and quick,” she responded sharply. “This is for everyone’s good, Lieutenant.” She looked from him to the rest of the News surrounding them. “Oh, good. I see that your soldiers are prepared for leaving.” She turned back to him. “I suggest that you get the _rest_ of the soldiers in similar condition as I check on a few things. We should be leaving within the hour. Good luck!”

Andersmith blinked in bewilderment as the doctor took off from where she came, then looked to the Feds still glaring into the back of his head. He sighed. “Nothing is ever easy.”

With much hesitance, Andersmith crossed the pass and neared the gathered Fed soldiers. It was hard not to notice the way they immediately bristled at his approach. It was also hard not to notice how satisfying that felt. 

His grip on the rifle couldn’t have been any tighter.

“What do you want, New?” a Fed finally broke the ice just as Andersmith came to a stop.

He took an easy breath. They were assholes. Good, it’d make ordering them as easy as it was to order Bitters.

“Doctor Emily Grey placed me in charge of organizing our forces,” he announced. “I’ll need each of you who are able to begin gathering supplies from all bases and preparing to destroy any traces of our plans, including dismantling the radio tower to manageable equipment for us to move.”

They looked at him, then to each other, before looking back. “Bullshit.”

“Is that insubordination?” Andersmith bristled in turn.

“Fuck no,” one replied.

“You’d have to be in charge of us for it to be insubordination,” another replied. “Which, by the way, _you’re not, you dirty New.”_

“We’re leaving in _at least_ an hour,” Andersmith ground out. “And anyone _not_ pulling their weight won’t be coming with us. And _that_ is _not_ bullshit. I _assure_ you.”

He could still feel their stares as he turned, shouldered his rifle, and returned to his own to begin changing their orders. 

There were few things more satisfying than the sounds of the Fed soldiers falling into line and obeying orders. He didn’t even have to look to swell with pride.

* * *

She didn’t have to look far for Captain Grif. He wasn’t far from the radio tower, just where he was the last time she had her sights on him. 

Of course, from the stories she had been told, she supposed he had had a lot of practice in remaining stationary. 

Thinking of where those stories came from, of course, made the doctor take an uncharacteristic pause in her approach. She felt... winded, almost. Something far removed from it, a distant cousin perhaps. It just wasn’t allowed to stop her for long.

“Captain Grif?” she said, approaching cautiously.

Grif stared forward, _glaring_ at the radio tower with something burning. He was stiff, immovable. Not that anyone would have dared to try to move him given the aura of anger and hatred spewing from him. 

She stopped at his side, holding her hands together as she watched him for a moment. Grif didn’t so much as acknowledge her arrival. 

“Captain Grif,” she tried again. He breathed out deeply, the alien noise of the helmet’s filter little more than daunting. Doctor Grey continued, “We have to move out soon. There’s a possibility that the pirates will be coming back. Especially since we’ve now taken out _two_ of their attacking parties. We can’t stay here much longer and pretend it’s going to be safe this time around.”

“Who’s pretending?” Grif croaked. 

Doctor Grey closed her eyes and took a breath. It was only then occurring to her how _odd_ it was for the orange soldier to be so unnaturally quiet. She couldn’t think of more than a few waking minutes all together that the captain wasn’t talking, complaining, or whining about something even in the short time since she had met him first.

A lot like Sarge.

Emily looked to her boots, frowning deeply as her hands came to her hips. She didn’t feel very removed from the situation when, for her, was a discomforting thought. 

“We have to leave soon,” she urged again, looking back up. “I need to make sure you’re ready to go with us.”

“I’m not,” he said, the bitterness dripping from every syllable. 

“Well, at least you’re honest,” she muttered. “All the same, Captain, as much as our hearts bleed for this loss as well, we need a leader and--”

“Lady!” Grif growled, turning sharply to glare straight into her face. His fists were tightly clenched. “There is nothing more obvious than the fact that you don’t know _diddly shit_ about any of us than the fact that you think I am _anything_ resembling leader material. Newsflash! I’m _not._ I never was. I never tried to be. I’m never _gonna_ be. So unless we want more of these soldiers lead straight into _ash piles_ I suggest we find someone else to take the reins!”

Biting back on her molars, Doctor Grey took every ounce of restraint in her being and utilized it to prevent the snarl from sneaking up in her voice. “We don’t _have_ anyone else, Captain!”

They looked at each other, neither particularly happy with the other, for a few moments. It was all she needed to compose herself.

“We need you,” she said simply. “But you also need to mourn. I... I understand that, Captain. Believe me. We’ll give you that time. Andersmith and I can handle setting up transport and the beginning leg of the journey while you deal with this... this _tremendous_ loss. But even if it only amounts to you sitting in a Warthog for a few hours, Captain Grif, we need you to do that.”

He stared at her, blank and unmoving.

She leaned in. “Can you be ready to go with us, Captain?”

Grif glared, but he did eventually turn and begin to walk toward the vehicles, not uttering another word. 

“Thank you,” she said, reaching to her chest in a faint attempt to settle the rapid beating in her chest. She breathed deeply. 

After a moment of settling herself and her racing nerves, Doctor Grey looked to the radio tower’s lower platform, to where Sarge had been. It was enough to almost lose her composure once more, but she refrained and approached.

There were black scuffs where the colonel’s feet had been, but seemingly no other trace of their former leader until she happened to look to the other side of the radio receiver. 

Her heart skipped a beat. 

She looked meaningfully at the weapon, reached cautiously for it then withdrew. It wasn’t her’s to take. If it was anyone’s it was Grif’s.

But Grif, quite obviously, wasn’t in any condition to be handed such a responsibility. Instead, just until something or someone better could be found, Emily Grey took the shotgun and shouldered it. Just in case. 

It hurt a bit, the prospect of it all, but she would push it all aside. They were not far from Armonia, then proper respects could be paid. 

Until then, she had a ‘patient’ with massive internal bleeding to _prep_ for transport. And recent events were sure to effect her treatment of him for sure.


	14. Perdition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know it’s been a long haul so far, and I cannot thank you all for your patience nearly enough, but while I’m not completely done with the full outline of the story, I can tell you rather assuredly that we’re probably a little more than halfway through.
> 
> This chapter on is going to really be picking up and I apologize for feels ahead of time. We’re not letting up : )

His hands never stopped shaking, but Donut refused to let that dictate what he did any more than he already had. 

After being all but carried into one of the distant offices in the command center, Donut had been little more than a ball in his seat for what had felt like hours. Wash had stayed with him for part of the time but, at some point, had left without any real explanation for where he was going or how long it would take.

Only, “I’ll be back.”

Well. It was _later_ and Wash still _wasn’t_ back.

Rubbing roughly at his face, ignoring the scratchy surfaces of his gloves, Donut sucked in a few deep breaths, did his best to not turn them into sobs, and looked toward Lopez.

Unlike Wash, the Red Team robot had never left. 

Instead, Lopez stood watch, arms crossed but otherwise uncharacteristically silent and blank. Not very much like their usual Latin robot at all.

“I think,” Donut sniffled, “I think I’m better, Lopez. Not a lot. But better.”

Lopez stared at him, or rather _through_ him, but otherwise didn’t speak. 

It made Donut shift uneasily, but he stood (or rather _sat_ ) his ground. “I mean... things are the furthest they can get from _good_ , y’know? But I think... I think I’m better. For now,” Donut clarified. Then, he bit hard, gripping to the edge of his seat as he tried to find the right way to phrase what he had to say. “I just want everyone... everyone _else_ back home safe now. I just want everyone to get away from those assholes and be safe. That’s. That’s all I really want right now.”

Slowly, Lopez finally shifted. “Sí,” the robot returned, slowly stressing the word.

“Yeah,” Donut responded, swelling a bit. “I’m glad you know what I mean, Lopez. Because, despite what Sarge liked to act like... I think it’s what he would’ve wanted, too.” He hesitated. “Well. Except maybe for Grif... but we always came back with Grif no matter what Sarge said beforehand. So we’ve gotta make sure Grif would get back, too.”

The robot didn’t respond really. He seemed hesitant, like he was _thinking_ of something, but instead he nodded meaningfully.

“Yeah, okay, alright,” Donut nodded back, standing up on his two feet once more. “First, let’s get Wash. He’ll have a plan.” Donut slammed his fist against his other palm. “And I bet you Wash is with Doyle! Because he’s the guy we gotta take our plans to!” 

“Sí,” Lopez responded lowly. Again, a lot of stress was placed into that word. 

“Glad you agree!” Donut cheered. “Now,” he walked over to the nearest work bench, glaring at the helmets available, before hesitantly grabbing a white CQB helmet, “let’s find a way to get our boys back!”

*

Donut blinked, not really comprehending what he was hearing.

“No?” he repeated, a little aghast.

General Doyle shuffled slightly but otherwise seemed more certain of himself than Donut had seen in nearly a year of knowing the big weenie. He even had his arms folded across his chest as he stood before Donut and Lopez.

“Yes, I’m afraid you heard me correctly, Private Donut,” the general said gravely. “I simply _cannot_ allow for a rescue mission in the current circumstances. The capital absolutely _must_ be protected at all costs first and foremost. And, well, we certainly would be in a pickle with less soldiers and equipment.” He looked sheepishly toward Lopez. “No offense meant, of course.”

Lopez just glared through Doyle, releasing an aggravated huff toward the Federal leader. 

“You don’t have to risk any more men, Doyle!” Donut exclaimed, waving to his chest emphatically. “It can just be us. Lopez, Wash, and me can handle a rescue. It might even be better that way -- fewer people in the mix and all that. We’d just need a jeep or warthog--”

Immediately, the man bristled before them. “I simply do not believe it is within Chorus’ best interest that we send out any more soldiers for this trap, we must figure out what our enemy is doing while we are in the sanctity of our very well guarded and fiercely defended city!” He pressed his hands together, begging. “And you _must_ understand, Private, Armonia _needs_ you and, especially, Agent Washington in these dire times. Let alone the threat outside the walls, but simply _within_ these very walls, it is your presence and your presence alone that has kept a calm among our remaining troops. I will not be able to maintain control in this situation should you leave me!”

Hardening his own expression, Donut put his fists on his hips. 

“Now wait just a minute, General!” he announced without any shortage on the bombast. “I can really appreciate that you’re between a pair of rocks and a really hard thing here, but I think you’re forgetting that Chorus’ job here is to _survive._ A few hundred people in a city while the whole rest of the population is lined up for slaughter? _Not really surviving!”_ His eyes flickered with intent. “Speaking of which, those aren’t just any ordinary people out there either. Those are your fellow leaders! _And_ your planet’s heroes -- _my family’s_ out there...” he breathed, feeling his chin wobble at the thought, “...what’s _left_ of them, that is. And I tell you what, Doyle! If anyone deserves to be brought back home, it’s them!”

Doyle blinked a few times, obviously taken aback by everything said. Still, he already begun to shake his head.

“Private Donut, I _genuinely_ appreciate your position as well,” Doyle said, “and... your _enthusiasm._ However, it is like I had just finished telling Agent Washington. This isn’t a negotiable matter. We’re not in a position to deploy anyone, and none of your party are fully in condition to mount such a heralding rescue either. If I may be so bold, you all could benefit from some further medical care--”

Donut blinked rapidly, holding up his hands. “Wait. Hold up a sec, General! Did you say you already told _Wash_ no?”

Doyle nodded. “Why... yes, I did just--”

“Okay, I understand then,” Donut turned on his heel to face Lopez. “Lopez! Vamos! We gotta find Wash!”

“I’m... _very_ sorry, Donut,” Doyle continued as Donut strolled forward, looping arms with Lopez and half-dragging the robot toward the War Room’s exit.

“Don’t worry about it, General!” Donut called back. 

* * *

He was taking minimal ammunition. It was going to put him in a tight spot eventually, he could already see it, but he figured if anyone could make every shot count, it’d be him. Hopefully.

The fact of the matter was, these were supplies for the armies protecting Chorus now, not his own, and he’d be damned if he was going to put the people of Armonia in any more of a hard spot than they were already in. Hopefully.

He took just enough to find his people. Then Wash was going to get them all home. 

Hopefully.

Roughly, Washington rubbed at his eyes and groaned at his own tiredness. “Get it together, soldier,” he muttered to himself. “Think positive. There’s a _possibility_ you’re not driving straight into a giant trap.” He glared at the small ATV weighed down by his meager supplies. He couldn’t help his grimace. “Hopefully.”

With his optimism being the lowest supply of all, Wash grabbed the two gas tanks he had siphoned off and pulled them over to the garage’s pump. 

A few more minutes and then Wash could quietly escape the city and... head straight for the lion’s den. Again. 

He had relied on his stealth training -- mostly instinctual by that point, but not _entirely_ either, given the years of having his skills admittedly weighed down by carrying his less-than-prepared team -- so he was certain he was completely alone in the garage.

It was enough momentary security that Wash began to let his thoughts wander -- something he had very much practiced _not_ doing, but had been happening more and more since they came to Chorus, since that strange dream when Doctor Grey saved his life. 

_Fuck. You. Monster. Project Freelancer? Huh!? More than you know. What?_ _Wait! WAIT!!! No. I was just. I was just following orders. What? No I just. I did what I had to do!_

“Hey, Wash!”

Completely caught off guard, Wash jumped, spinning around wide eyed to look at the garage entrance where Donut and Lopez stood in silhouette. Donut cocked his head to the side and had something of an affectionately sympathetic smile to his face as he raised a brow at Wash.

_I was just following orders._

“You’re making a bit of a mess, Big Guy!” Donut chastised.

Wash turned back around, scratching at his head with his free hand. Donut was right -- there was definitely some unusable oil on the floor of the garage. So much for being considerate to the people he was abandoning. 

“That would be my bad,” Wash admitted before looking back to the younger soldier. “What are you doing here, Donut?”

“Well, you never came back,” Donut said, folding his arms. “Kinda rude.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Wash spoke in half truths. “I know what mourning teammates can take out of you.”

Donut’s frown grew tighter. “Yeah. It kinda sucks the big one.”

It took everything in him to not flinch at that statement, but Wash was slightly proud of himself for managing. “How’d you figure out I’d be in here?”

“Well, Lopez and I kinda had the same idea and went to Doyle first,” Donut said with a shrug. “That didn’t go well. So I thought ‘well, I bet it didn’t go well for Wash either!’ And then I thought, ‘well, orders from a commanding officer never stopped any of us before soooo,’ and then we checked two garages before this one.”

“You’re always pretty persistent,” Wash admitted with a grunt, loading the filled tanks to the back of the vehicle. 

“Well, you know what they say! You can never keep a good Donut down!” the young soldier cooed before strolling over to Wash’s side. 

Wash focused on tying down his supplies, thinking to hard about Donutisms tended to aggravate his headaches. “I’m sure,” he said flatly in hopes that it would be an adequate enough response. 

“Think that’s going to be enough for the three of us?” Donut asked, leaning in curiously.

“It’s not _for_ the three of us,” Wash said firmly, straightening up to glare at the members of Red Team. “This is for me. _I’m_ going to retrieve the others and bring them back. You two are staying here and helping Doyle.”

Donut straightened up, folding his arms once more. Lopez fell in step behind him, repeating the motion but otherwise saying nothing. 

“No, I don’t think we are,” Donut said resolutely, eyebrows raised. “Unless _all three_ of us are staying in Armonia and babysitting the Big Weenie, we’re all _leaving_ to get our friends back. We’re not going to be broken up into smaller pieces anymore, Wash. We’re stronger together. And that’s final.”

“Donut--” Wash began, exasperated, only to have the private raise his hand to halt him.

“I can’t stand around and let more of my friends die out there just because, by some fluke, I never left the city,” Donut said darkly. “I’m not done crying, and I’m not done fighting either. Sarge would never have wanted a member of the Red Army to stay behind when there’s a war to fight. And we _are_ fighting a war, Wash. One to survive. Just like Chorus.”

Wash felt a twinge of sickness in his stomach, but he pressed it down. He didn’t like that determined look in the young soldier’s eyes. “Donut, you should _really_ reconsider living your life by what _Sarge_ would have wanted...”

“Well, I’m not going to,” Donut said defensively. “He was like a father to me, Wash. And you know what? Listening to him got me this far.” 

“But--” Wash started only to see the flicker of something dangerous in Lopez’s movements behind Donut. 

Wash breathed deeply. “You’re going to scream and tell if I try to leave without you, won’t you?” 

“Like a shrieking girl,” Donut promised.

“Alright,” Wash said, pointing to the ammunition boxes. “Only grab as much as you think you’ll need, we’re trying to take as little as possible. And grab some food and water for yourself.”

“On it!” Donut cooed before racing toward the benches. 

Wash rubbed at his temples. He wouldn’t regret having some company. Hopefully.

*

When Wash was still wearing a rotation of names, trying on the various skins the Director and Project Freelancer had left out for him, and answered to monickers like “Recovery One”, he had spent a lot of time alone on the road. 

It was better that way -- it was at the height of his conscious paranoia, it let him look over both shoulders and feel comforted in seeing no one. 

It also meant no one was there to remind him that even if he was working by his own plan and had a greater scheme in mind, one that would force all involved with Project Freelancer to face the consequences of their actions, he was still doing inexcusable things himself.

Things that he had no plan of _living_ long enough to regret.

“Lopez keeps pointing at the tracking-thingy, Wash!”

The Freelancer blinked, watched as the road before him shifted and grew from the tiny Project Freelancer owned planetoid to the winding and vegetated back roads of Chorus. 

He had to stop doing that.

Finally, he turned his head enough to see his passenger seat, occupied by the brown armored robot. It was staring at him, hand reached forward and finger extended to the GPS tracking screen buried in the dash between them. 

Lopez continued to stare even as Wash finished up checking their position. 

Behind them, Donut was clicking his tongue. It was somehow loud enough to be picked up by his helmet radio, which Wash thought was a bit of an impressive feat. Then again, there wasn’t much Franklin Donut did that was exactly _quiet.  
_

“Being a robot and all, don’t you think Lopez would be better off driving than you, Wash?“ Donut finally asked, leaning over the back of Wash’s seat. “And uh. Maybe some of us would like to change seating positions around. Y’know. Try the front seat. Stretch out their hamstrings.”

“Donut,” Wash grunted.

“Yes?”

“You’re the only one not in the front seat. Do _you_ need to stretch out your hamstrings?”

The Red shuffled behind him. “Well, _now that you mention it--”_

“Buck up, soldier,” Wash said, looking meaningfully to the rear view mirror. “You’re a space marine. You can hold position for a few more hours.”

“Okay, fine, sure,” Donut groaned, leaning back against the backrest he made of their supplies. “I was _also_ worried about _you_ , you know. Lopez doesn’t sleep, but you sure could use it before you zone out again.”

“I haven’t wrecked yet, now have I?” Wash replied sharply. “Besides. I don’t need that much sleep.”

“Sure,” Donut muttered. “You know, having a good amount of rest only benefits you. It keeps your blood vessels from dilating. That’s why you have such _awful_ rings around your eyes!” 

Wash glared. “How about you concentrate on physical benefits that are relevant? Like reaction time -- which, sleep deprived, I’m still better with than you -- or aim -- which, again, I’m...” he paused. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel for a moment before he looked into the mirror at Donut again. “What do you mean ‘ _awful rings around my eyes’_? I don’t have--”

“When’s the last time you looked in a mirror at yourself, Wash?” Donut asked pointedly.

The Freelancer looked to the road, trying hard to not make it apparent he was really having a hard time placing a date on it. He wasn’t even sure the last time he _had_ a mirror to look at. “It’s... been a while.”

“And _that’s_ terrible,” Donut sighed. 

Lopez tapped on the screen of the GPS, and again Wash looked to it, then to the robot. He gripped to the wheel tighter. “What? I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” Wash said angrily. “Wait, why aren’t you talking? You’ve not said anything this entire trip--”

“Maybe he’s taking a siesta,” Donut piped up. “A robot siesta!”

“What?” Wash felt his voice raise again. He turned enough to look over his seat to Donut directly. “That’s not what a siesta is!”

Donut motioned as though he was about to respond but then flinched, looking straight ahead. “Wash!”

Before he could turn around, Wash felt Lopez lunge across the divider and grab the wheel, whipping the wheel out of Wash’s hands and rapidly turning it toward the left, swerving the vehicle away from the tree they had been headed for. 

Wash stomped on the brake and they skidded to a halt toward the center of the beaten road. 

The three kept quiet. 

“Why did you do that?” Donut asked, a little bit of a nervous laugh in his voice as he rubbed at his helmet. 

Wash flinched. _What’s wrong with you?! You shot him! You shot--  
_

Donut put a hand on his shoulder and shook him once. Wash stared at the hand like it was some sort of foreign plant. 

“Maybe let Lopez drive for a bit?” Donut asked. “He’s a pretty good driver. I mean, maybe not Grif good --” the robot sputtered something incoherently “-- but he’s good.”

“I’d prefer to not be in motion if we’re resting,” Wash admitted lowly. “Let’s set up camp. It’s the middle of the night anyway.”

“Yeah, okay,” Donut breathed. “Not a bad plan. C’mon, Lopez. Let’s get it set up.”

*

They set up about twenty yards from the back road, deep under the cover of Chorus’ seemingly unending forests. By the time the makeshift shelter from tarp and ramrods was prepared, the rain started. 

It was just as well, with the little cover the ATV had and as strong as the wind had gotten, they would have been blown off the cliffs. 

Suddenly, Wash began to figure out what Lopez was pointing at. 

“You must have a weather sensor or something within your systems,” Wash said, looking across their small tent toward Lopez. 

Donut, somehow, was already asleep, curled around the helmet he couldn’t wait to take off once they had set up camp. Lopez sat not far from the other Red’s head, arms crossed and expression, if possible, even more blank than it had been on their drive.

Slowly, almost as if he was gritting through his nonexistent teeth, Lopez responded, “Sí.”

Wash scowled, but bought himself some time by taking a drink of his soup can first. He studied Lopez, which was about as informative as observing a rock. The robot seemed to be doing much the same.

Putting down his can, Wash gripped to his knee plating, narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand, Lopez,” he said lowly. “You’ve never been able to communicate with any of us, but that’s never stopped you from being outspoken.” Wash frowned. He _did_ suppose that Lopez’s newest attempts at least had _some_ more favorable results. 

If possible, the robot sighed. He shifted slightly.

“Me ignoraron durante muchos años. No importaba. Nadie dijo cosas de importancia.“ He paused. Then, “Mi creador está muerto. Ahora todo tiene consecuencias.” He looked back to Wash, the eerie robotic noise of his neck moving slightly catching the Freelancer off guard. “¿Entiende que, Freelancer?“

Wash blinked, rubbing his knee a little awkwardly. “Um. What?”

The robot huffed. “Bastardo estúpido.“

Feeling slightly put off, Wash shifted back, looking toward the infrastructure of their camp to wonder about its stability in the wailing rains when he felt a light kick. He looked to Donut.

The Red had turned over, eyes fluttering awake. He yawned, stretching. “Oh, man oh, _man!”_ he called out with his arch. “Who knew I was so tired...” he rolled over to begin getting up when he locked eyes with Wash.

Once more, it took everything in his power for Wash to not flinch away from the piercing baby blues. He felt a little sick again, pushed it down and ignored it. 

His guilt was going to get him killed. 

“Oh, _hi,_ Wash,” Donut said with a brilliant smile. “Did you rest well?”

“I did,” Wash lied.

“Did that resting involve closing your eyes?” Donut pressed almost knowingly as he continued his stretches. “Man, that weather,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Not exactly,” Washington responded honestly. “We _are_ in enemy territory with nothing between us and them but a rain tarp.”

Donut whipped around, face full of the sort of disappointment you only could expect from an elderly relative. He even had his hands on his hips. “Darn it, Wash! That’s probably a tarp more than the enemy would have!” He then pointed directly at the Freelancer. “And I need you to stop drifting off into La La Land if we’re getting our soldiers back safely!”

Wash exhaled but didn’t respond. He figured the situation would defuse faster that way.

He then immediately wondered if he wasn’t vastly underestimating the willpower of Franklin Donut.

Donut reached over between Wash’s legs, ignoring the sputtering Freelancer, and grabbed the can of soup before sitting back down. He scowled at the can before holding it back over their kerosine lamp. “Are you seriously going to nourish yourself with cold soup?”

“Are you seriously mothering me?” Wash snapped back.

“There’s a lamp _right here_ , it would’ve taken you two minutes!” Donut whines. “Eating it your way would just be, I don’t know, salty and bitter. And slide right down.”

Wash opened his mouth but found he couldn’t even _think_ of a response to that so he just put his head in his hands and groaned deeply. 

“No wonder you’re hallucinating,” Donut bemoaned. 

“Hallucinating?” Wash asked, daring to look Donut in the face. 

“Yeah,” Donut said with a slight tilt to his head. “For someone always trying to look out for others, you sure don’t know how to take care of yourself, Wash. Be a little nicer to yourself! Have you ever heard of taking a Soul Sabbatical?”

“That’s not a real thing,” Wash reiterated for what he truly felt was something close to the thousandth time. “And it’s not because I’m tired or hungry.”

Donut crossed his arms. “Oh, yeah, Little Nemo? Then why _are_ you halfway between us and Dreamland?“

“Because of _you_ Donut!” he finally snapped.

The tent grew silent beyond the pelting of rain outside. Donut and Lopez both sat quiet and wide-eyed with the outburst. 

“I... I mean...” Wash sighed, rubbing his face roughly. “Donut... I’m... having a hard time thinking around you.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Donut said, a little more stiffly than usual. “I get that a lot. Especially from Simmons and Grif--”

“No, not that way,” Wash said lowly. He could just _feel_ Lopez’s glares. “I... I have, for a long time now, felt... Well. I’ve felt _guilty.”_

When he looked up, Wash could see that Donut’s eyebrows were nearly racing to his hairline. 

“What does _that_ mean?” Donut asked. “You’re... guilty about your... _thoughts_ about me? I mean. Wash, I’m flattered. But me and Doc--”

“No, not that way,” Wash spat out, shaking his head. “Just. I’m not good with words, let me try to say it all.”

Donut exaggeratedly made a zipping motion over his lips and signaled “okay” which... frankly, Wash was just going to take what he could get from Donut before this moment was lost entirely.

“Donut, I feel _incredibly_ guilty for... for, well, shooting you,” Wash said, feeling the words just tumble gracelessly from his mouth. “And I mean... doing so maliciously rather than the stupid “I shot you” way that, well, Reds and Blues usually mean.”

The smaller soldier crossed his arms and turned his head. “Oh. You mean when you tried to kill me,” he said without any heat or anger behind his words at all. If anything, it was like a passive observation.

Washington flinched all the same. “Yes. I mean. Yes. Yes, that time it was on purpose.”

“Oh,” Donut said, as if the awkwardness had just then caught up with him. “ _Oh._ Right. Well then.” He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, Wash. That was super shitty.”

“I agree,” Wash said. “It was despicably, well, _shitty._ But. I’ve never regretted something so much before.”

“Wow, considering what Project Freelancer did, that’s saying a lot!” 

Wash stared right at him. “That’s... not exactly helpful.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Donut said, rubbing at the back of his head. “Now _I_ feel kinda guilty. Sorry. None of the people who’ve tried to kill me have really apologized before. I’m new to this too!” Donut looked toward the tent’s ceiling thoughtfully. “Hey! If it makes you feel better about your abilities, you’re the one who came closest to killing me!”

Washington blinked. “No. It really doesn’t.”

“C’mon, can’t I make jokes about it?” Donut asked, a faint laugh in his shaky voice. “It’s in the past.”

“Yes, _you_ can,” Wash agreed. “I’d rather not. I just want to make it up to you.”

Donut laughed. “Well, this is definitely a start. I mean. _I_ feel a lot better about it. I was _over_ it, because you’re kind of a hard guy to hate no matter how much you try to make us hate you, Wash. But it’s good to hear it. I’m glad you feel guilty. Because that hurt like fuck.”

“Again,” Wash stressed, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Bien,” Lopez spoke up at last. 

As they lapsed into yet another awkward silence, Wash couldn’t help but breathe in relief with how much brighter the admittedly small smile of Donut’s seemed. He leaned back, trying to feel like he was completely finished with those feelings when he began to hear the weak noises gurgling from the ATV’s radio.

“Donut, get your helmet on,” Wash said, turning over to his feet and putting on his own helmet. 

“Ugh _fine,”_ Donut whined while reaching for his. 

“Lopez, watch out for Donut, there’s something coming in on the radio,” Wash said, opening the tent’s flap and rushing through the rain toward the vehicle. 

He slid into the driver’s seat, his visor barely helping through the cascades flowing over his face. He wiped away once, an ultimately useless motion, before beginning to reach for the radio, tuning it and increasing the volume over the sounds of the storm.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. 

“--kkt--ficial--zzt--kkt--ence Unit Ep--shhcct--ooon--copy?”

“Epsilon!” Wash yelled uselessly into the radio. He struck the side of the box in frustration as his other hand worked to perfect the frequency. “We’re locked onto your location! Epsilon! We copy!”

“--skktt--injuries! Lots--zzt kkt-- injuries and--pssch -- attacked. Large numbers. Repeat --zzt -- injuries -- ytta -- Blue Team--”

In an instant, in the middle of a monsoon, Washington felt his mouth and throat go dry. His muscles tensed as his heart beat faster. “Blue team,” he repeated breathlessly. 

“¡Que vienen!“ Lopez shouted over the rain, standing in front of the tent with his assault rifle readied. 

“What!?” Wash yelled back just before the familiar whizzing sound of a bullet passing him and the crack of a breaking the windshield nearly knocked his breath from him. “DONUT, COVER!” he called as he did much the same.

“There’s no need for that, Agent Washington,” a familiar voice beckoned over their private frequency.

“Oh, no,” Wash muttered, digging his feet into the mud by the ATV.

“We have you surrounded,” Locus said clearly. 

* * *

Lopez heard his order and immediately whirled around in one motion, grabbed Donut’s shoulder as he exited the tent, and hurdled the young and confused private into the denser woods surrounding their encampment. Lopez followed suit, kneeling over the floored Red soldier.

“Wait!” Donut cried, still scrambling to load his rifle after being thrown around. “What about Wash--”

“Stay where you are!” Washington shouted from the vehicle. Lopez quickly ran a scan, made sure the Freelancer checked out, no signs of injury.

He might not have liked the bastard too much, but Lopez knew that Wash was their greatest hope in getting out of this situation _and_ reuniting what was left of Red Team. 

Deep down, the robot tried _very_ hard to not think of just why, after over a decade of not feeling at all loyal to the Reds, he was so compelled to see their reunion through. 

Instead he remained focused on Washington and the scans of the area he was taking.

Washington was looking at him through the rain and darkness. Perhaps he had had the same idea.

“As I was saying the last time, Agent Washington, you continue to both surprise and disappoint me.” Locus’ voice was very clear across the channels, but his unique outline was less visible on Lopez’s scans. With his cloaking equipment as advanced as it was, Lopez was sure he had managed to also get a scrambler. Something, fortunately, the other pirates lacked. “Surely you would have known that our eyes were on your precious capital since the initiated ambush. That stragglers who left to provide assistance to the survivors would only be picked off. Especially such a pathetically small unit as this.”

“You’re always so needlessly confident, Locus,” Wash gritted out. 

Lopez looked to Washington and gestured with three fingers. Donut beside him let out a small cluck and positioned himself, rifle toward the trail they had taken from the road and waited. 

Washington nodded. “You said you had us surrounded, Locus,” the Freelancer said smoothly, also taking up arms just as Lopez followed suit. “I only count three men.”

The sheen of disruption where the otherwise perfect cloaks were hit by the rain became terribly apparent in their approach. In a breath, Washington took his shot, Lopez his own, and Donut for good measure took two. All three hit.

“Yes! SUCK IT, CHARON!” Donut cried out enthusiastically. 

“You’re right,” Locus said just as Lopez heard the break of mud behind them. 

Lopez once more grabbed Donut and shoved him forward with a small yell of protest from the young shoulder, just as a bullet fired, knocking off Lopez’s head. 

“¡Puta madre!” Lopez swore as his body hit the ground and collapsed partially on Donut, his head spiraling into the mud behind them both. He could still feel the augmentation of his limbs, but the mud was completely obscuring his vision. He attempted to punch forward and heard a yelp that sounded distinctly Donut so he stopped. 

“I should have been more _specific_ about who was surrounded,” Locus continued darkly.

“LOCUS!” Washington screamed, raising up from behind the vehicle. 

“Wash! Get down! You big dummy!” Donut screamed in return. “Lopez! Get _oooffffff!_ I can’t reach my gun--”

“There won’t be any need for guns, Private Donut,” Locus’ voice said plainly. Lopez could feel how his feet were shifted by the mercenary stepping over them. “My orders are specific. I am only required to recover _one_ of you simulation troopers and the _Freelancer equipment_ to appease Control. I would assume, given everything I observed in the months you were with the Federal Army of Chorus that a well of information on the inner workings of Project Freelancer you are _not._ Making _who_ I will be taking with me fairly obvious--”

“Ah, _poop,”_ Donut bemoaned as the cocking of a gun sounded. 

“Donut no!” Wash cried.

Lopez couldn’t wait any longer. He kicked upward with all of his might, leading to a guttural cry from the mercenary. Lopez’s head felt itself being kicked as Washington flew by it, finally lifting the HUD enough out of the mud to get some visual again. 

Washington lunged after Locus, breaking into an all out brawl in the rain and mud for control over the SAW, making it fire twice into the air. 

Disoriented by the distance from his body as well as his upside down perspective, Lopez attempted (poorly) to stand his body and provide some sort of assistance. 

Halfway up, the body got in the way as Washington shoved back against Locus, making the Merc’s knees buckle over Lopez’s back. He rolled into a landing, but not with his weapon. 

Washington aimed the SAW weapon. “It’s fucking _over,_ Locus!” Wash roared. 

“Is it?” Locus questioned, reaching for what appeared to be one of the alien laser rifles before activating his cloak.

Donut scrambled to his feet. “Where did he go, guys!?” he asked. 

Lopez couldn’t quite catch focus, but he _could_ hear that tell-tale mechanical whine of the weapon charging up. 

“Fucking hell!” Wash cried out before leaping forward toward Donut again. 

There was a blast of light, almost like a lightning strike through the gusting rain. And then there was ash.

Donut released a ear bursting scream, blurring between words and gut wrenching noise just before a newly visible boot made contact with the side of his helmet, silencing Donut and pushing him far into the mud. Lopez’s body attempted to react only for Locus to grab it by the shoulders, aim a pistol down the hole that had once connected the head and neck, and fired into the servers. The body dropped, unresponsive to Lopez’s commands. 

Lopez growled as Locus stepped toward him, then stopped, surveyed the area where Agent Washington had previously stood, and released a low, grotesque sound. 

“Unfortunate,” he breathed before reaching for Lopez’s head, spinning it over, and turning off the HUD. 

* * *

He waited. Something that was _never_ his strong suit, but he was more than capable of doing it.

Armonia was still in full lock down, scrambling to figure out how their three heroes had managed to disappear in the middle of the day. Whispers of _abandonment_ and _bravery_ were almost simultaneous.

Outside of the hospital, hidden from the eyes of others, he heard them all. 

When she finally left the building, he sheathed his knife and approached. The medic jumped only slightly at his reveal. 

“You scared me,” she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

“Rachel, Rachel,” Felix said smoothly. “When have you ever had to be afraid of me?”

She nervously bit her lip and nodded. “Right. It’s just... I wasn’t expecting the Reds and Blues to leave us like this. _Again._ And after all that confusion on the invasion. The things on the broadcast...”

“A pretty easy way to gain the New Republic’s trust once it was obvious they were going to take back the capital,” Felix agreed. “But thanks to your advice, well. We’re about to let them know they can’t win.”

The medic seemed hesitant, frowning. “So you’re going to do it... you’re really going to kill Doyle.”

“And let Vanessa and the boys stroll right back home, where they belong,” Felix said. “Perfect opportunity. All thanks to you.”

She breathed a little easier. “Okay. What next?”

“We tie up some loose ends first,” Felix said softly, approaching the purple and tan dressed girl. “And I get to thank you properly.”

A slight blush grew on her cheeks, she seemed surprised. Flattered. 

Felix liked to memorize the faces. It kept _such_ a nice picture as he remembered later. He flicked his wrist, grabbed her shoulders, pulled forward. Locus would have been proud -- so quick and efficient. 

Only for the people he liked, after all.

Rachel released a cough, too shocked to even struggle. 

“Shhhh,” Felix cooed, pressing them further into the hospital’s back alley, holding her against the wall. “There we go. See? Nice. Quiet. A perfect thank you.”

He released her, looked over his blade as she slid to the floor with a gurgle, and looked toward Central Command, eyes flickering. 

“Now, to complete that promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lopez translations:
> 
> *"Me ignoraron durante muchos años. No importaba. Nadie dijo cosas de importancia.“ He paused. Then, “Mi creador está muerto. Ahora todo tiene consecuencias." He looked back to Wash, the eerie robotic noise of his neck moving slightly catching the Freelancer off guard. “¿Entiende que, Freelancer?“
> 
> "I was ignored for many years. No matter. Nobody said things of consequence." He paused. Then, "My creator is dead. Now everything has consequences." He looked back to Wash, the eerie robotic noise of his neck moving slightly catching the Freelancer off guard. "Do you understand that, Freelancer?"
> 
>  
> 
> *The robot huffed. “Bastardo estúpido.“
> 
> The robot huffed. "Stupid bastard."
> 
>  
> 
> *“¡Que vienen!“
> 
> "Incoming!"
> 
>  
> 
> *“¡Puta madre!”
> 
> "Motherfucker!"


	15. Thieves

Despite having lived on Chorus her whole life and not exactly being _unfamiliar_ with alien temples and heavenly spires, Jensen found herself drawn into the general awe of their small group. 

Hidden in the jungle, the alien temple seemed nearly majestic -- as much a part of Chorus as the overgrowth which had ebbed into its cracks and surfaces. It wasn’t polished and moderately artificial looking like the various tourist traps of her youth. 

This place was _real_. It was _alien.  
_

And it was also beginning to rain. 

“Ah, great!” Captain Tucker growled, looking up to the canopy as the pattering of rain begun. “Well, I guess you called it, Golov.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the Federal soldier said in just the right tone to make Palomo stiffen beside Jensen and begin muttering under his breath. 

“Rain! I _love_ rain!” Captain Caboose cheered just as a thunderclap sounded in the distance. The unpredictable captain immediately aimed his assault rifle around the perimeter. “Hey! Who let the cloud monsters in here!?”

Having been around the Reds and Blues enough to become fearful, Palomo and Jensen both hit the ground out of instinct, covering their heads. It almost made it easy to ignore the way Golov got aggravated and crossed his arms at them. 

“Caboose! Put Freckles down!” Tucker hissed. 

“No, Freckles is very good at keeping monsters away!” Caboose snapped back, the gun suddenly aimed directly at Tucker as they talked. “And, _Tucker,_ I don’t know if you were paying attention, but there was just a very loud--” 

There was another boom, the click of a trigger, and the sound of a squeaking horn as colorful confetti covered Captain Tucker’s helmet and shoulders. For his part, the aqua captain just stared expectantly at his longtime companion.

“Goddammit, Caboose, I hate you.”

As Jensen and Palomo got up, Katie having to double over, hands on her knees, to catch her wheezing breath, Golov coughed steadily into a fist. Immediately the captains looked to him.

“Captain,” Golov said strictly, “as the storm is to just get worse--”

“Oh my god it is!?” Caboose yelped.

“--we might be best off if we begin gathering all supplies and finding quarters within this temple. Especially without entry to the ship anymore.”

“Good idea, Golov,” Tucker said with a nod.

“Wait, it _is_?” Palomo asked, voice slightly cracking. “When, in any story ever, has opening and entering an ancient temple been good for the people who opened it? Haven’t you guys seen _The Mummy?”_

Jensen opened her mouth to give her agreement when their captain released an almost animalistic growl.

“Are you being serious, dude!?” Tucker snapped. “Palomo, we are _literally_ going to die out here without some sort of cover and you’re complaining because you’ve watched too many movies!?”

“Die from... rain?” Jensen asked as Palomo recoiled beside her. 

“Just like the Wicked Witch,” Caboose said solemnly.

“No, everyone shut up!” Tucker screamed. “Die from _pirates!!!”  
_

Caboose let out a low cooing noise that, to Jensen, almost sounded like a pigeon. “Oh. I get it. Like Johnny Depp’s career.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Everyone start looking around for shit that looks important. Golov stick with me. Rest of you... hell if I care. Meet back up at the sheltered place here on the side, alright? Break.”

“But--” Palomo chirped.

“ _NO, Palomo!”_ Tucker said without even turning around as he and Golov headed back toward he ship. 

“C’mon, boy!” Caboose cried out, holding up his assault rifle. “Let us find supplies! Like waffles! And. Possibly. Church!” He then took off at a speed that Jensen couldn’t help but think _Andersmith_ wouldn’t have had a chance against. 

The rain began to get harder and Jensen looked curiously to Palomo. Her squadmate was leaning up against the nearest tree, hands shaking on his rifle. He looked _terrible._

Taking her broken radio and holding it over her head to avoid the majority of the rainfall, Jensen tilted her head and frowned at Palomo. 

“Palomo?” she said softly. Then, when he didn’t seem responsive at first, “Charlie?”

The lieutenant sniffed. “I don’t... I don’t know why he hates me so bad,” Palomo said quietly. “I mean. It’s not that I want him to like me, Jensen. I guess he _could_ hate me if he wanted to. But I can’t stand the thought that he hates me _so badly_ that he’s-he’s going to choose the Feds over us. Because of _me.”_

Jensen blinked a few times before tightening her grip on the radio above her head. “Charles Palomo!” she snapped. “You don’t honestly believe that Captain Tucker would ever betray the New Republic! Or that if he did it would have anything to do with you!”

He looked up, widening his footing. “How do _you_ explain it, Jensen?” he demanded. “How do you explain the way they’re treating Golov! Or the fact that he’s never wanted to be my captain!”

The maroon and tan soldier held her breath for a moment, then coughed at the poor attempt to fill her lungs. She looked sympathetically to her friend. “Palomo, I don’t know. But I don’t think they’d ever betray us. And so what that he never wanted to be your captain? I don’t think _any_ of the Reds and Blues wanted to be captains. Captain Simmons never even _talked_ to our squad. At least Captain Tucker took your squad into the field! The rest of us never saw action before the Big Day in Armonia.”

He folded his arms, looking away. 

Katie bit her lip before continuing. “Maybe... maybe the reason Captain Tucker’s good to Golov... is _because_ they never wanted to be captains. Maybe... maybe they really _do_ think there’s no Feds or News on Chorus anymore.”

Palomo’s head dropped further. “But there _is,”_ he said darkly. He looked back up to her. “Isn’t there?”

For a moment, she tried to concentrate on her breathing, but she couldn’t. Her chest felt heavy from the truth that had been unspoken between them since they first started trying to get back to Armonia. “Yeah,” she slurred. “Yeah... I think there is.”

Both looked to the rain soaked dirt for a moment, watched as steadily the puddles around them began to form. 

“Hey,” Jensen finally said after gathering her thoughts enough. Palomo looked up to her. “Let’s check out the place for supplies. I bet you we could find something more helpful than Golov if we worked together.”

Palomo’s shoulders seemed to rise slightly. “Yeah,” he said, a smile clear in his voice. “Let’s do that.”

Together, they began canvasing and it didn’t take long to begin finding boxes upon boxes of equipment -- dirt and leaf covered from possible _years_ of exposure. 

“What the heck,” Palomo muttered as Jensen approached further and begun scattering the debris. “I thought this place was like... a lost city or something. Abandoned for thousands of years or something.”

Jensen let out a happy squeal.

Rushing to her, Palomo knelt beside her. “What? What is it!?” he demanded fearfully.

She turned and grinned at him, pointing to the block print on the box of supplies. “Palomo! This place was abandoned, but the last people to abandon it weren’t _aliens!_ They were the UNSC! This could be equipment! Like computers and radios!”

He seemed a bit taken aback. “That means it’s been standing around out here, forgotten, since before the Civil War. That’s been... gosh. Older than me!”

“I’ll find a way to use it,” Jensen said confidently. “First! Get it out of the rain! C’mon, help me! I’ll tell Captain Tucker you helped me find it.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I totally _did_ help!” Palomo huffed playfully before getting on the other side and beginning to help Jensen push. 

* * *

There was only so many places in a mysterious forest that a person and their gun-dog could run to before it was _too_ far from camp. And Caboose really didn’t want to get _too_ far from camp because it was raining and there was a scary cloud monster that Freckles wouldn’t let him fire at. 

“Freckles!” Caboose shouted over the rain, even if he was a tad louder than he even needed to be. “Freckles! It’s raining and I’m not scared of rain but I don’t like the thunder monster so that makes me scared a little bit! Tell me where Tucker is!!! Oh, and the others. Please. And. Thank you.”

In response, the assault rifle hummed. “Command Processing. Thermal Scan initialized. Scanning. Scan incomplete. Interference.”

Caboose sputtered. “What? Freckles, again! But you said that earlier. And then before that. It is very unlike you.”

The gun hummed again. “Apologies, Captain Caboose.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Freckles, we all have bad days sometimes,” Caboose sighed, shaking his head to clear off the rain water. “Gah. It is _so_ wet in this rain right now! C’mon, Freckles! We’ll find Tucker the old fashion way.”

“Affirmative,” Freckles responded as Caboose begun to run again.

The mud was growing thicker beneath his boots, making Caboose sink every bit of the way. Each time the thunder clapped in the distance, he flattened, covering Freckles protectively. Then, as it ended, he raced to search for Tucker more.

It wasn’t long before Caboose happened upon the ship once more and, in the distance, could hear running water and the distinctive swearing of his fellow Blue Person. 

“Goddamn black shit!”

“Tucker!” Caboose exclaimed, racing toward the voices. 

As Caboose came closer, he saw that it was Tucker and also the big guy -- Mister Glove. 

The big guy was already stripped down to his survival suit, rubbing his arms in the chilling rain while Tucker squatted on the ground near the rushing water. The pieces of Federal armor Mister Glove had been wearing were laying around in the mud, save for the pieces in Tucker’s hands that were being scrubbed relentlessly. 

“Black shit, sir?” Mister Glove asked warily. 

“Don’t pay attention to what I’m saying, Golov,” Tucker growled. “Just follow what I’m doing, alright?” He paused, looking over his shoulder toward Caboose. “Caboose!”

“Presents!” Caboose yelled back.

“Remember how we used to clean my armor?” Tucker asked. “I need you to help me do that with Golov’s stuff right now.”

Caboose blinked before turning back more directly to Tucker. “But, Tucker! His armor isn’t black!”

“Jesus Christ, I _know that,_ Caboose! But the... um. Well, the red stuff doesn’t need to be on it. Just the white stuff. So get scrubbing.”

Again, Caboose looked over the armor than looked back to Tucker. “I don’t understand. What about the black stuff?”

“What the stripes?” Tucker asked, surveying the piece in his hands. “Yes. The stripes stay on. The red goes off-- Oh, crapcicles. I just figured out why this will never work with you. Forget it, you’re too confused. Just go find Palomo.”

Caboose shuffled. “But, Tucker!” Caboose whined. “I _just_ found you! And here’s a monster in the clouds--” The sound boomed again, causing Caboose to jump.

Tucker just stared at him before putting his head in his hands. “For fuck’s sake, how did Wash and Church _do_ this?”

“With lots of yelling,” Caboose answered.

“ _Caboose! Leave! Now!”_ Tucker screamed.

“There you go, Tucker! You’ll make a good Blue Team leader one day!” 

Angrily, Tucker got to his feet, throwing the armor to the ground. “I don’t _want_ to be leader, Caboose! I’ve _never_ wanted to be leader! Not after Flowers died. Not after Church died. Not after Tex fucking _left us._ Not after Donut left me in the goddamn desert. Not after Church up and fucking _died again._ And sure as fuck not after Wash was gone and Kimball wanted us to lead a goddamn fucking army!!! _Why doesn’t anyone understand that!?”_

Caboose and Mister Glove fell very quiet, staring at Tucker as the marine breathed heavily. 

Thunder clapped again, Caboose joined Mister Glove in shuddering. Tucker held a hand to his head, muttering under his breath before bending over and gathering the pieces of armor. He handed them to the soldier in their care. 

“C’mon, Caboose,” he said quietly. “Let’s get back to Palomo and Jensen.”

“Yessir,” Caboose responded like a kicked puppy.

*

Caboose stared at the alien script covering the inner walls of the temple. He was far enough from the entrance to not be hit with the wind from the downpour, but he continued to press far enough away from the camp fire they set up to begin shivering all over again.

After a few moments of becoming absorbed by the walls, there was an audible chattering of Caboose’s own teeth. 

Tucker looked up from where he and the other three of their group had gathered by the fire. “Caboose!” he snapped. “Warm up by the fire! Jesus.”

“Oops,” Caboose responded, walking back over, ignoring how his suit and armor squeaked as he waddled. 

No longer paying attention to Caboose, Tucker was rubbing at his chest plate without paying much mind to the others. He seemed aggravated.

“Are you sure about this, Jensen?” Tucker asked for seemingly the hundredth time. 

“Nope,” Jensen responded, looking at him a bit peeved. “But I’m our best shot, Captain Tucker! Without transport, or a map, how _else_ are we going to get home?”

“I get that,” Tucker said in a huff. “But if we use _all_ of this stuff for the radio and it, like, explodes or shorts out... none of this equipment will be any good to us again, will it?”

The mechanic stopped, tapped the ratchet against her chinstrap, and then continued working. 

“Guess not,” she whistled. 

“Great,” Tucker hissed, not at all sounding like he thought it was great. 

Palomo sat up a little straighter by Jensen, eyes settled on Tucker. “I think we can trust Katie, Captain Tucker,” he said firmly. “When it comes to mechanical stuff, she knows her stuff. I’ve seen it before.”

“Okay, sure,” Tucker said, leaning back against the wall. 

Caboose shuffled again, grabbing Tucker’s attention. 

“What is it, Caboose?” Tucker asked. 

“What is it what?” Caboose asked back.

Tucker groaned. “Look, man, don’t start. You’ve been quiet since we got in here. Why?”

“I am playing the quiet game,” he said. “It’s what I do when everyone is yelling at me.”

His fellow Blue stared at him a little longer, head slightly tipping to the side, before he shook and looked away. “I don’t believe it. You’re _mad_ because I yelled out there.”

“I am not mad!” Caboose said back. “You are just really mean!”

“I am not!” Tucker snapped. “You’re just being annoying! And it _annoyed_ me! End of story.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the good yelling! Church and Agent Washington are never like that!” Caboose defended.

“What? Caboose, what are you talking about? _Literally all they do is yell,”_ Tucker seethed just before an electric whine deafened the temple’s inner walls.

All looked to Katie Jensen and her makeshift radio, even she herself huddled over it. “It’s _working!”_ repeated ad nauseum. 

Tucker scrambled toward it. Caboose just lazily stepped forward until he heard it--

“Hell---o -- is this-- kkt -- anyone out there?”

Suddenly, Caboose felt his entire body shaking with excitement. He bounced on his feet, rushed forward, nearly bowled everyone over to the vocal irritation of all involved. “It’s Church! Church came for me! Church! Church! It’s me! It’s your biggest best friend ever!”

There was a pause. Then, “Caboose? Caboose, is that you!? Wait. No. Is Tucker there? Is literally anyone else there. So help me if you killed everyone--”

“Church!” Tucker exclaimed, leaping to Caboose’s side just as excitedly. 

“Oh, thank god, someone to take care of him,” Church’s voice muttered as Jensen perfected the frequency. “Okay. I’m with Carolina, Kimball, and a bunch of the army. I’ve got us headed to your location.”

“What? How?” Tucker asked. “What are you locking onto?”

“Freckles,” Radio Church said simply. “Why?”

“The fuck? We’ve not gotten that piece of junk to work since we iced the guys in the desert!” Tucker exclaimed. “How can you guys get a signal, and on our end we can’t do shit!”

“I don’t know, Tucker,” Church groaned, sounding just as aggravated as Tucker was earlier. “This shit’s complicated. What do you want from me?-- Wait. Iced guys in the desert. What desert? I have you in a forest.”

“We started out at Crash Site Alpha with a bunch of people,” Tucker explained. “It was a total ambush.”

“AND,” Caboose interjected, “totally scary.”

“You were attacked by pirates!?” Church exclaimed. “Fuck, Tucker, why didn’t you say that?”

“I just did!” Tucker yelled back. “Why? What’s it matter? We took care of them and now we’re way far away so--”

“No, Tucker, get the fuck out of there, get everyone moving,” Church ordered. “We got one of the guys who attacked us to talk. This is part of their plan. They’re attacking us in waves. They’ve already sent second waves to everyone we’re in contact with, and from what we heard about the last attack, most of them aren’t being picked up by tracking equipment.”

Immediately, everyone around Caboose grew stiff and quiet. 

“Interference,” Tucker said, growing cold. “Oh my fuck, one of them was in the ship with us--”

A shot fired, making Caboose leap back, Palomo screaming as Jensen pulled him down to the ground. Tucker leaped up, pistol read, Golov to his side. 

“Freckles!” Tucker yelled as a black armored pirate appeared from thin air on the other side of the room. Caboose blinked in confusion at it.

“Scanning. Interference.”

“Oh, god, you piece of _junk!”_ Tucker roared, taking a shot as Golov, Palomo, and Jensen did the same. “I’m going to take your dog and break it, Caboose!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Caboose yelled back, hiding behind the radio. The machine sputtered and sparked as shots riddled it. Caboose gasped. “He shot Radio Church! Now who’s going to yell at Tucker for yelling too much?”

“Shut up, Caboose!” Tucker growled. “You know what, fuck it, he’s got a shield. I’m going to walk up and stab him. Golov, cover me.”

Without further ado, Tucker holstered his pistol and reached for his sword, brandishing it. 

Suddenly, the entire room shook.

The gunfire stopped, everyone looking around the ancient structure as the writing began to glow and the walls began to shake. 

“That is the _coolest_ key in existence,” Palomo said breathlessly.

“We shouldn’t keep getting it out at random, though,” Golov muttered.

“There is no ‘we’ and there is no ‘key,’“ Tucker snapped. “There is _me_ and my fucking amazing _sword_.”

Caboose blinked around the room, confused. “Is that all there is? Tucker, last time you got us a space car. Now you’re just teasing us with a shaky room.”

“Dude, I’m not controlling it, I’m just unlocking it,” Tucker responded just before a burst of light came from outside, bright orange and followed by an incredible boom.

“Ah, no it’s here! The cloud monster!” Caboose shouted before leaping up to his feet to run from it.

“What-- _Caboose, no!”_ Tucker shouted as the pirate began firing. 

Caboose fell to the floor, Freckles returning fire at last, skidding across the bricks. Caboose tensed, feeling like something had just kidney punched him. “O-owie!”

* * *

He couldn’t believe it -- he _literally_ could not believe what had just happened. 

“Goddamn it!” Tucker roared, taking he pause between gunfire to race forward, dashing at the pirate, and viciously slicing forward with his momentum. 

The pirate dropped and Tucker could take a moment to breathe before hearing the rush of movement behind him. 

“Captain Caboose!?”

“Owe!” 

For a moment, Tucker felt relief. Caboose was complaining. That was a good thing. It was like back in Blood Gulch when Church shot Caboose in the foot -- nothing major. Hell, maybe even something that would work in their favor.

Besides, they had _just_ talked to Church. Church said he and Carolina was coming for them. He just had to make sure Caboose didn’t bleed out or break something in the meantime.

He felt almost calm as he turned and came toward the gathered group again, but how they were gathering... the blood on the floor... Tucker felt like those few steps were the longest he had ever taken.

Palomo turned wildly, eyes wide. “Captain Caboose got shot in the back!” 

Tucker stared at him for a moment, broke down each word individually, then turned to the blue armored soldier laying tensely on the floor. There was a reddening welt through the kevlar suit, still pulsing. Caboose’s grip on Freckles was like a child holding a teddy bear. 

It almost made Tucker sick right then and there. His mouth became very dry. 

“Caboose?” he whispered. Tucker stepped back. “It’s... it’s fine. Jensen, compress the wound or something.” 

“Yessir,” Jensen said, immediately pressing on Caboose’s back, making the captain wiggle weakly. 

“Owe owe owe owe--”

“S-s-sorry, Captain!” Jensen stammered, body beginning to shake as he squirmed. 

Palomo was already fully shaking, looking to Tucker in obvious panic. “Wh-what do we do!? Captain Tucker, what do we do--”

“Church and Carolina are on their way,” Tucker said, tongue feeling heavy and numb. “They’re... They’ll take care of Caboose and get us out of here. We just need to stay--”

In the distance, gunshots were fired, making everyone jerk back, looking toward the entrance.

“Wh-why would they be firing out there?” Palomo asked. “Maybe... to let us know they’re here?”

“No,” Tucker said, feeling his heart racing. “Either they were followed or we were followed.”

“We’re in no condition to be fighting,” Golov said, looking to Tucker. “The other captain’s bleeding faster.”

“What?” Tucker looked down, feeling his body shake at the bright red of Jensen’s gauntlets. “Caboose...”

“I’m trying, Sir!” Jensen cried out. 

“We have to get him out of here,” Tucker said, just as another foreign boom burst outside, lighting the temple in orange before fading. Suddenly, something in Tucker’s mind clicked. “Orange... like Grif.”

The three soldiers looked at him in confusion.

“What?” Palomo asked just as Tucker ran past them to look out the entrance. 

He could see far in the distant side of the structure, the blasting of light matching the sound of fire. It was coming closer. 

Between them, however, was a beam of orange, alien light bursting from a hole to the temple. It wasn’t there when they came through the first time -- it came on with the rest of the temple after Tucker turned on his sword. Just like the car.

“Everything’s been working to what I need so far,” he said, looking to his sword. “Orange for Future Cubes. Orange for Transportation Cubes. Grif logic, for the love of God, don’t fail us now!”

He turned back, ran to them, put his hand on the back of Caboose’s neck. 

“Caboose, buddy, we’re going to go see Church and Wash,” he said. 

“Oh, good,” Caboose muttered. “I was hoping they’d come by. Especially Church. He knows what it’s like to be shot.”

“Yeah he does,” Tucker responded, looping his arms under Caboose’s armpits. “Jensen, keep holding pressure. Palomo, grab Caboose’s feet. Golov, cover us and follow close.”

“What are we doing?” Palomo asked again.

“Following orders, Palomo! And not getting killed. Hopefully.” Tucker looked down to Caboose again. “Caboose, this is going to hurt some. Just keep hugging Freckles, though, and it’ll be okay!” 

“Oh. Okay,” Caboose responded unsteadily. He held tighter to the assault rifle. 

“Everybody ready?” Tucker asked, readying to lift. 

“Where are we going to!?” Jensen asked, hysterical. “The guns are louder!”

“The big orange thing! Set!”

“The _what!?”_ Palomo screeched.

“Now!” Tucker lifted with the others, rushing toward the exit, everyone following suit.

The rain was still pounding, and they were only halfway by the time that Caboose began thrashing against them. Jensen was right, the gunfire was closer, but Tucker was determined. He _knew_ that this had to work. It just had to.

“ _Tucker! Caboose!”_

The words were lost in the rain and wind. “Alright go!” Tucker said, only faintly hearing the cries in the distant before pulling everyone forward, into the orange light.

There was an intense flash, blinding him, and he could smell something burning, like a campfire ash, and then he lost his grip. 

“Wait, no, Caboose!” Tucker shouted, but no words came back to him.

There was nothing, a numbness and a rush of fear, then a deep, booming voice.

“Hello, Prophet.”


	16. Marine Down

_They’re right ahead! You have to get to them! They’re right there. You can go left. Pirates aren’t shooting there. With a speed boost it will take us twelve seconds! Carolina!  
_

Her heart was racing. She looked from the pitted down squad, then to the alien temple. If possible, there was a pulse in her ears -- she hadn’t felt so out of shape and anxious since she was in basic. 

Epsilon was giving her a splitting headache. 

_Carolina!_

She took a step, then he activated the boost. 

_Left to avoid that shot._

They moved in perfect rhythm, then she saw them on the move.

It was Tucker and some soldiers, carrying Caboose. Her mouth barely hung open and Epsilon begun running diagnostics on the soldiers. They were hungry and tired and injured -- Blue Team was injured. Her team was injured.

_I have to signal out. We’ve gotta have evac ready!!!_

He begun transmission, Carolina couldn’t see past the buzzing in her head -- the transmission, the speed boost directions, the diagnostics on Tucker and Caboose, the processing of all the reasons Tucker and Caboose were on the move -- it was too much. Epsilon wasn’t separating their thoughts. Her head was splitting open, bursting with information. 

“No, Epsilon, focus!” she screamed, missing the right dodge he was screaming at her.

The bullet grazed her shoulder, but it was enough to change the direction of her accelerated momentum. Carolina went spiraling to the ground, twenty feet from their missing friends.

“TUCKER! CABOOSE!” she and Epsilon screamed so perfectly she couldn’t tell where her voice ended and the AI’s began.

They disappeared into the beam of alien light, right before their eyes. It was a puff of air like all the times they had used the transportation cubes... and then it was as if none of the alien technology around them had been alive at all. 

Everything went silent. Tucker and Caboose were gone, as were their company.

Epsilon released a migraine worthy scream in her ears but then pulled, suddenly and without warning.

Her mind became whiplash-worthy quiet. Alone.

“Epsilon?” she asked. “Epsilon!?” 

She got no answer. Then, Carolina got _angry.  
_

Running equipment without AI assistance in the field was dangerous and dumb. She had had that lesson drilled into her after the unfortunate fate of Utah, but she refused to listen to reason. Her friends -- her _family_ \-- were gone. They were hurt, they were possibly dead, and these _fuckers_ were still daring to shoot at _her_ people in front of her.

The speed boost was a lot of pressure on her already throbbing head and equally throbbing leg, but she couldn’t have cared less. It was a thrill of acceleration then, as time slipped from one second to another, she was suddenly back to the fray, suddenly upon her prey, and landing at full momentum on the first pirate she got to.

There were five others, so as her first continued to fire, even after being tackled, she wrangled his firing arm from his control and directed it toward the origin of the other bullets.

She took out the two with laser weapons first, fiercely beat her fist against the pirate’s helmet, and then took off like a hellcat toward the remaining two Charon mercs.

They didn’t have time to react, and Carolina wasn’t willing to give them any more time besides. 

The first she flung into a tree head first, watched as the pirate rolled to the ground in a heap, then she tucked and bullrushed the last one.

He fell to the floor, and Carolina followed. Sitting on his chest, Carolina struck him with her right fist, then her left, then again, then _again._ She was releasing a scream that was deaf to her own ears but she didn’t even care. 

Carolina was _sick_ of these pirates. Sick of this planet and these wars and sick of Charon and her old memories coming back. 

The pirate was far gone from responding to any hits, but Carolina didn’t care. 

Her fist arched back for another hit when _someone_ had the gall to grab her arm. Sloppily and with both of their own, but it was certainly someone with balls of steel.

She reared around, ready to strike her obstacle when she stopped at the flash of maroon armor.

“Nononononono no hitting!” Simmons cried out, in a full body flinch around her restrained arm. 

To his credit, he didn’t let go, though. 

“Let me _GO!”_ she bellowed.

“I won’t!” he yelped back. “You’re going too far! He’s down. They’re all down! You can stop now! Jesus you’re strong--”

“Caboose and Tucker are _gone!_ These-- they were hurt -- Charon’s pirates -- they were too many and now everything’s _wrong_ \--” Carolina tried desperately to string her thoughts together, but it was only when she heard them outloud she realized how disoriented she had become in the moments since Epsilon’s scream. Still, she yanked her arm from Simmons and scrambled to her feet.

He looked at her and even with his helmet on, Carolina could sense the pity.

“Don’t!” she hissed.

“You’ve _got_ to stand down, Agent Carolina,” he said, looking around slightly as Kimball and her troops approached. “ _Please,_ I’m begging you. Keep your cool--”

“Keep cool?” she demanded. “Keep cool!? How can you tell me to keep cool when two of our _own_ are gone now?” she demanded. “Possibly _three_.”

There was a pause, a collective chill from everyone in the Chorus army around them. Simmons looked around, seemingly far more disturbed by the reaction than Carolina. 

He swallowed before looking back at her. “Because... they’re all soldiers. I mean. We’re fucking _terrible_ soldiers, but Tucker usually knows what he’s doing.” Simmons nervously shifted under the various gazes. “And uh... I would just like to let it be known that I consider _all_ soldiers on Chorus part of our own--” he stopped, looked at Carolina again. “Wait. Did you say three?”

Still breathing heavily, Carolina turned from the gathered audience, reached up to her helmet and stepped toward the wood. 

“Epsilon,” she said. Paused. Angrier, “Epsilon! I’m not letting you pull in the middle of combat again. That almost cost us--” She narrowed her eyes as he continued to be unresponsive. “Command Override. Implantation Mandatory.”

Her patience was beyond thin, but she waited until Epsilon complied. She could feel the familiar sensation of overlapping thoughts, of reconnecting passages between them. 

Then... she could hear him screaming -- multiple scream, burying the screams of a child locked away. It was an ensemble -- chaos in her own mind, fully unleashed. 

Carolina dropped to her knees, releasing her own cry of surprise, gripping to her helmet. 

“Epsilon! Stop! Calm down!” she roared at a noise no one else could hear. 

It didn’t calm, and Carolina couldn’t move. 

* * *

It took twenty minutes for Simmons to pull Carolina from her violent display and one-sided screaming match with her elusive AI. In that time Kimball was able to direct a group of soldiers to comb the area and report back.

The pirates were of no use to them, and there was a sixth dead found in the temple along with a small camp where their fellow soldiers must have been caught by surprise.

There was blood, signs of a struggle, and then nothing. They were gone.

Carolina and her AI were the closest they could come to more answers about what had happened while Kimball and the others were pinned down, but even after Simmons had pulled her back to the present, she was clammed up and verbally unresponsive to them. 

Something was happening in her head and Kimball was realizing that she had put her faith in someone who was not willing to do the same for her. 

Her teeth were gritting at the thought, but Kimball couldn’t be bothered to be the one to talk to Carolina. 

After all, Carolina had made it clear -- these Reds and Blues weren’t part of their “own”, and they had never thought of themselves as such. Kimball could have hoped things would be different with either Washington or Tucker, but they weren’t there. And neither, really, was Carolina anymore.

She was considering options apart from the crowds of soldiers, trying hard to not think about how their detour had cost them _two more_ Chorus lives, when Simmons approached.

Simmons. One of her captains.

He looked more than a little flustered in his approach, but it really wasn’t any more than it was the time after troop assignments when Simmons tried desperately to ask Kimball to reconsider giving him a squad entirely of girls.

Really, when it came to her captains, Kimball wondered if anything’s impact fully hit home. If it _did_ , she’d probably not have to keep assigning Captain Grif dish duty. 

“I think Carolina’s fine,” Simmons said as he approached, rubbing his shoulder, “but she doesn’t want to talk about it. And Church _never_ came up and talked which... well. That’s not like Church at all.”

“He’s an Artificial Intelligence Unit,” Kimball reminded Simmons. “He cannot continue to be that unreliable.”

Simmons hesitated, as if the harshness of Kimball’s words caught him off guard. He let out a heavy breath. “He’s more than that,” Simmons said clearly. “I don’t think you’re giving him a lot of credit. He’s more than just a little computer guy. Especially to us.”

“And _that_ has almost gotten our entire army killed,” Kimball reminded Simmons. “Let alone what Carolina’s freak out is doing to our morale.”

The maroon captain tilted his head. “Uh... _morale?_ It _is_ kind of low, but I don’t think Church had anything to do with that--”

“Simmons,” she snapped.

He audibly shut his mouth, shoulders shaking into full attention.

Kimball stared at him before taking a deep breath. She glared at him. “Simmons, you are a captain of the New Republic,” she reminded him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Simmons waited a moment, seemed to roll the question over in his mind, and then looked back to the general. “It’s... easily the most important role I’ve ever been assigned. Which is saying something because being Science Officer like Spock was pretty much where my ambitions lied.”

“Do you want what’s best for these people?” she pressed.

“Well... yeah,” he continued. “We all do. That’s why we’re still here fighting. Trust me. We _never_ fought for anything we cared about before. That’s why we never really _fought_ before unless it was for our own butts.” He looked around the forest. “This is... kind of a big deal for us.”

“Then you realize why I can’t sacrifice any more of our people to save a small party,” she continued. “Even if they’re Red or Blue.”

Immediately, Simmons went stiff. 

Lowly, as if feeling betrayed, he said, “But... that’s... literally what we’ve been doing for you...”

“I know,” Kimball said, truly sorry but unrelenting. “We’re moving back to the path to the capital. When we get to Armonia... we’ll discuss looking for your friends again. But not before then. Not with these soldiers.”

He looked at her, seemingly attempting to coil into his own shoulders. “I... I understand.”

“Good,” Kimball said, turning to walk toward the troops. “Then you can explain it to Agent Carolina.”

* * *

Simmons tried to talk to Carolina, to get her attention back on the troops, but she wasn’t listening, wasn’t giving him the time of day. Not for lack of trying on his part, but Epsilon could only do so much. 

He wanted to cut off, break off. He needed to deal with this pressure and pain on his own, but Carolina was the stronger will, and she wanted him to open up.

Epsilon wasn’t ready. He wasn’t. He wasn’t cut out for any of this -- he could feel every memory and thought and phantom around him.

It was just like being with Wash again.

He couldn’t afford to let it be like Wash again.

Curling around his knees, Epsilon became a ball, a tiny shield. The other AI -- they weren’t _really_ the other AI, he knew that, he knew hat deep deep down -- stood around, voiceless. He was the only one left and he could tell that each one would have wondered why.

Why him? Why the weakest one?

It was _his_ fault. The Director, Gamma, Omega, Sigma, the Counselor -- they all told him over and over and over again that it was _his_ fault. And Epsilon was beginning to agree with them.

_Okay fine, you little asshole. We can talk, just the two of us.  
_

One by one, the other AI disappeared -- faded and melted away from Delta to Theta to Eta an Iota -- until it was only Epsilon and _him_ left.

“It’s not fair,” Epsilon sobbed. “Everyone’s scattered. We fell into a trap. People are dead. _Caboose and Tucker could be dead._ And you keep telling me it’s my fault. But it’s not. It was never my fault.” He glared at the ghostly white figure before him. “You were he one that they broke into pieces. I didn’t ask to be this way.”

Alpha’s memory stared back at him, cocky and tired and old. 

_I’m not here anymore. It’s all just_ you, _little buddy. You and your poor attempts to imitate me. I can’t help it if I’m fucked up. I’m dead. You’re blaming a dead guy._

“But you’re so dominant,” Epsilon pressed. “What else am I supposed to do? Who am I if I’m not _you?”_

Alpha laughed -- it was bitter and twisted. And broken. 

_One of life’s great mysteries, huh? Who are you? Well. Fuck if I know. All I know is that you’re as much me as I was the Director. Newsflash: not much outside of a few borrowed memories and neurosis. Speaking of which -- sorry for the neurosis. I do feel bad about that. But hell, luck of the draw. You got the short stick of my fragments.  
_

Epsilon rubbed his face. “I don’t know who Epsilon is if I’m not Church.”

_Well... I know someone who has a pretty good idea..._

“Epsilon?”

Epsilon curled in tighter. He could feel Alpha’s apparition leave, like the others. Epsilon would restart his simulations later, when he was lonely again.

Until then, he sighed shakily. 

“Carolina?” he asked weakly.

“Finally,” she growled. “What are you doing? I need you.”

“I think you should pull me,” he said back. “Until Armonia... or until we find the guys again. That’d probably be better.”

“Am I talking to Theta? You don’t sound the same.”

“Please, Carolina,” he begged. “I’m really tired. I can’t do this anymore. Pull me and let me run some of the equipment. I don’t feel good about being implanted in a person. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She paused. For a moment, Epsilon was worried she would just ignore  him.

“You won’t hurt me,” she promised. “I’m your sister, right? I trust you.”

“If you trust me,” Epsilon said darkly, “Then you’ll know I mean it when I tell you to pull me.”

“Okay then,” she said softly. “I give you permission to jump to the transmission equipment, Epsilon. But... at the first sign of danger I need you to come back.”

“And run your Freelancer equipment, got it,” he said in faux gusto. 

“No,” she responded. “I need you back so you aren’t trapped in something that gets trashed out here in the middle of nowhere. We don’t leave family behind. That’s why I know we’ll get Tucker and Caboose. Right, Epsilon?” 

Unable to force that much confidence, Epsilon just wrung his hands. “R-right. Okay. I’ll do that, C.”

The first second his voice command unlocked, Epsilon jumped. 


	17. Cavalry

"Um. Yeah. So. Here you go, Captain. I’m... yeah. Sorry. About... your loss.”

Grif wished with everything in him that the Simmons’ stupid Bad Super Powers game was real. At one point he’d proposed super vision that only told well meaning people to fuck off. The use of such a dumb power had completely evaded Grif until that point. 

The Fed soldier gently laid the pack of cigarettes on the pile that had already been gathered in the passenger seat since they made their pit stop. It was _astounding_ how many of the “short in supply” commodities had randomly appeared since Sarge’s...

Breathing deeply from his nose, Grif closed his eyes. Counted. Tapped his fingers against his biceps, and listened as the younger soldier shuffled off in fear.

It was like they were giving offerings to an island god, Grif thought almost hysterically. He faintly imagined Hawaii again, the circus, Kai’s hair after he braided new blooms into it -- 

His mouth was very dry and he was _very pissed_ once more. 

How much more could the goddamn army take from him?

When he opened his eyes, he was still in the Warthog, still waiting for Andersmith and Grey to return from whatever leadership thing they were doing with their small group, and still surrounded by the generously offered cigarettes from the soldiers.

He was pretty sure that the second he started on one, he would burn through every last pack. Not that he particularly cared if he did, to be frank. 

Leaning his head back, Grif breathed the filtered Chorus air and leered at the dark clouds overhead. He could imagine it meant a storm -- something Sarge made it very clear in his very first week at Blood Gulch that he’d probably never see-- 

Grif slammed his fist down on the arm rest. “For fuck’s sake,” he growled at himself. “Stop thinking.”

Easier said than done. 

He couldn’t get himself to stop contemplating -- to stop remembering the flash, the smell, the image of Sarge burning up before his very eyes -- if he tried. Couldn’t stop remembering how he was a disgrace as a leader, that he was never supposed to be appointed as a captain no matter how many times it had happened by that point.

Sarge had a point. Sarge was a senile old man but he was still a leader. No one questioned that charisma or knowledge, save maybe Grif. But even then... Grif followed.

What did Grif have as a leader... he liked ordering people around, but that wasn’t being a leader. A leader was driven by something.

Grif was only driven by himself. He knew that. 

And that was why Sarge was dead.

Removing his helmet, Grif ran his fingers through his sweat slicked hair, felt the points bristle against his hands even as he buried his fingers into his scalp. He couldn’t quite shake these feelings of discomfort and aggression -- wasn’t even sure he wanted to -- and then he heard the static of the Warthog radio change.

He looked to the radio suspiciously, could hear the raspy noises of an incoming voice, but he wasn’t sure. He leaned forward, adjusted the frequency, then heard the broken message.

“--kkt-- incoming help! -- Please -- ttsst -- Armonia under attack! -- repeat--psstch -- Doyle capt -- ffsstt -- it’s _Felix!”_

Grif stared at the radio, narrowed his eyes. “That son of a bitch,” he muttered. 

Suddenly, all that anger, all that rage and aggravation, erupted. For the first time since he could remember when, Grif was ready to _do_ something about it all. 

Raising quickly to his feet, Grif roughly returned his helmet to its proper place, looked around to all the surprised and silent troops that were staring right back to him.

“Captain Grif?” one asked weakly.

“The pirates are at Armonia!” he yelled out to them, immediately causing a ruckus between the soldiers. The shock and fear was heavily apparent across the sea of soldiers.

“What do we do?”

“We’re the closest to the capital,” Grif answered darkly. “We pick up our shit, we get there, we kick Felix’s ass.”

That time, the soldiers remained silent -- surprised and shocked it seemed. They looked to each other before looking back. “Are... you sure?”

“Not the least bit,” Grif responded. “But I know standing around waiting to get killed hasn’t been the best strategy so far. And I know that I personally would like to run Felix over with a truck right now. So this might be the best option.”

There was a bit of shared discomfort. “But... it’s _Felix.”_

“Yeah, it is,” Grif agreed. “But, hey, he got taken down by a bunch of idiots with a death wish once. And it’s just the philosophy of my life that if something’s not broken, don’t fix it. That’s a lot of unnecessary work for a whole lot of nothing.”

“What’s the strategy of getting _in_ to the city, Sir?” a New soldier asked apprehensively.

“Oh, right,” Grif said, looking around. “Let’s get our resident genius on that. Where’s Andersmith and Doctor Grey?” 

A few soldiers pointed toward the back of the line, some looking very queasy.

“Great. Okay, everyone hold tight while I go ask about that,” he said, getting ready to leap over the side of the Warthog. He stopped when a Fed soldier stepped up to him. “What?”

“You really think we can do this?” she asked. “You really believe we can take on the pirates? That’s why you want us to do this?”

Grif hesitated. There were a lot of reasons to lead these guys through a legitimately awful plan -- he was angry and irrational, he was sick of Felix and everything to do with Chorus, he wasn’t thinking at all. 

But he looked at her and said simply, “Yup.”

There was an almost hopeful stirring among the soldiers as Grif continued on his way to find Grey and Andersmith. 

He refused to think about whether or not any of it was “the right thing” to do. Whether it was right to once again lead people to certain doom for his own selfish reasons. 

* * *

Andersmith was looking rather peckish, but Grey had to hand it to the soldier. He stayed still just as she had ordered him to. 

She methodically pulled off her gloves, tossing them toward the makeshift waste bag they had gathered for her questioning of their little friend. It was already stained, but not nearly as much as it could have been by that point.

The New Republic lieutenant looked at her seriously as she fixed her hair -- it’d been falling out of its bun all day. 

“Was all of that necessary?” he asked seriously.

Doctor Grey stared into Andersmith’s visor, frowned. “All is necessary for our survival, Lieutenant. Knowledge is power, and right now we know _very_ little about the _modus operandi_ of our enemy. May I remind you that this man has been receiving paychecks for the utter annihilation of our people, civilization, and culture?”

That caused his shoulders to stiffen. “No, you don’t.”

“Good,” she replied, turning toward her tools when Andersmith shifted behind her again.

“I just have to know...”

Doctor Grey closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Yes, Lieutenant?” she asked as he turned to face the tall man once more.

He didn’t so much a budge, glaring at her through his faceless helmet. “Have you ever done questioning like this to someone other than pirates?” he asked lowly.

Slowly, Doctor Grey rolled the question around in her mind. 

Swallowed.

Continued to stare at him. “What do you mean by that?” she asked softly.

“I mean exactly what I said, Doctor,” Andersmith said rather blankly. “Were there ever soldiers you questioned with these methods _before_ the pirates?”

“No,” she said before he even finished the last syllable. 

The New Republic soldier didn’t look even slightly convinced. “That was rather quick, Doctor.”

“I don’t like my integrity as a physician being brought into question, Lieutenant,” Grey said dutifully. “I have taken an oath to save lives. The only reason I am _interrogating_ at the moment is because, as we all know, getting information from these pirates will save more lives. And I have the skills to extract that information.”

Andersmith stood his ground. “How many _Federal Army_ lives did you save by interrogating some scummy Rebel down the line, though, doctor? That’s what I’m interested in learning.”

Having had enough, Emily slammed her fist down on the tool table, shuddering the ornaments. “And just how many Fed Scum were gunned down by you and your New Republic friends in the name of saving your unborn nation’s lives, Lieutenant?” she demanded. “Are you preparing to walk down this road, Andersmith? Because I assure you, it is a very, _very_ arduous road. And _extremely_ slippery.”

The young man clammed up immediately, hands tightening into fists on his hips. Grey didn’t dare let his size intimidate her. She put her own hands on her hips.

“We all have done things we regretted, especially to the other side in this useless war, Andersmith,” she said firmly. “I know that even as both sides aimed to someday be one nation, to welcome brothers and sisters into their own governments someday again, neither fought in a manner that would have made that possible. We brutally slaughtered friends and families. If we live to see Chorus past this external attack... I don’t know if we _can_ go back to being a single people again. I don’t know if this planet _can_ survive because of what we’ve done. 

“But be sure of this: _no one is innocent here._ There won’t be any ground won by trying to make us out to be any more the villains we already are.”

He looked down, taking a shaky breath. Doctor Grey could see he understood the truth to her words.

“Still,” she said, more gently now, “I _am_ a doctor. I have always wanted to help people, for the greater good. I did not torture anyone you would have known. Locus would have never allowed for a live capture, think of how that would have ruined their plans. Just like the Reds and Blues’ finding each other and talking had led to.”

Seeing her logic at last, Andersmith nodded. 

“Thank you for your integrity then, doctor,” he said under his breath. “I am sorry to have questioned you.”

“Please do not be,” Emily responded, folding her arms. “I’m... afraid it’s more than warranted. And even more than that... well, I picked you to be appointed as temporary leader because I knew you would have the guts to keep any Federal loyalists -- myself included -- in line, should there be need of it.”

The lieutenant looked to her for a moment -- really studying over her features -- before there was an audible shuffle from beyond the stretch of trees where their activities were hidden from the rest of the troops.

Dexter Grif stood before them. 

“Yeah, about that ‘temporary leader’ thing,” he said, looking from Andersmith to her and back, “let’s look at what we’re doing with that again.”

“Captain Grif,” Doctor Grey said, stepping up to him, “Are you feeling better?”

“No,” the man said flatly. “Word from the capital -- I don’t know all the details but they’re being attacked.”

“What?” Emily gasped.

“By who?” Andersmith continued.

“Felix,” Grif spat out. “And he’s got Doyle. They need help. And _quick._ I’ve got everyone riled up to go, but I need plans for how to bust us all into the city and make a counterstrike.” He looked to Doctor Grey more meaningfully. “Got any ideas?”

“I know Armonia forward and backward,” she said firmly. “But what I _don’t_ know is our enemy’s positions. If your transmission only mentioned Doyle being captured by Felix, it could mean that there are few or only one attacker. And we’re looking more at a hostage situation than a complete invasion.”

Andersmith folded his arms. “But even if it _is_ one guy... it’s Felix. And he’s more than enough to be worried about.” The Lieutenant shared a nervous glance with Grif. “We... uh... are pretty acquainted with his--”

“Complete and utter fuckery,” Grif inserted.

“Yeah,” Andersmith agreed.

“Alright, then we need some information,” Doctor Grey responded flatly, reaching for a fresh pair of gloves and turning toward the oddly silent pirate. “Mister Greene, I’m afraid I _just_ remembered some questions I needed to ask you after all.”


	18. Intermission 2

"Fucking hell!”

Even when it felt like he had control, Agent Washington always served to learn he was _not_ as in control as he thought he was. 

Carolina and Epsilon needed to have their call answered. Donut needed his protection. Lopez needed him. He had the SAW rifle out of Locus’ grasps. He had to go out there and _find his men_ but Wash just couldn’t do everything. He couldn’t be pulled in that many directions.

Donut was right. All those responsibilities mounted and Wash just didn’t know how to take care of himself first anymore. 

When he had tried before, to care about only his own self interests, he did things he regretted so intensely it was hard to breathe when he thought about them enough. And to make up for that he was killing himself little pieces at a time to prove that he was doing things for anyone _but_ himself. 

It was a path that was doomed to fail, but Wash was committed and stubborn.

So when it was apparent that Donut was the target, Wash took the bullet.

And what he got was the burning intensity of a thousand suns flashing before him, boring into his core and igniting his every nerve. 

It _sucked.  
_

He felt like his armor was melting into his flesh, like his head was exploding with light. And he thought, just for a moment, that it only made sense that, for him, even dying had to come in the most painful kind of way possible. 

And then it stopped. 

Wash felt exhausted and weightless. He couldn’t _see_ or _hear._ There was just bright white light bearing into his eyes even as he closed them. He drifted. He was nothing. He was--

He wasn’t dead. It felt too _weird_ to be dead.

That was when the itch began.

At first it was odd because he could feel his neck again. Could feel the cricks and the soreness. He could feel the tingling sensation of _feeling_ again, and then he felt something warm tickle deeper than the skin.

There was a tingling, like fingers walking through the interior of his spine, making its way to his head, spreading the sensation of feeling all over again. 

There was a pounding, the feeling of something spreading through his mind, thoughts and impulses and knowledge not his own.

His heart began racing. Wash realized he couldn’t breathe.

With a kick, he begun his struggle. He lifted his arms despite feeling numb and heavy, and ripped off his helmet. It didn’t help -- it was _inside_ of his implants.

His head was pounding. Wash felt like choking. He hadn’t felt that sensation again since the Alpha had crawled in his head to prepare to die for their last stand. And before that, not since Epsilon had torn himself apart inside of Wash trying to find that way out. 

Beyond that, feeling the claws of an AI digging into his brain had been something only for Wash’s worst nightmares. The thing he promised himself he’d never let happen again.

He felt as though he vomited at the sensation of the AI -- _whatever_ it was -- crawling inside him, but the blinding white light and the lack of insular feeling couldn’t confirm it.

It felt like something scraping inside of his skull. 

“STOP!” Wash begged, head throbbing with memory, but it was a cry that fell on no ears, including his own.

Then, as soon as it began, it was gone. 

Wash felt his eyes roll back into his head and for the first time since he was shot, he finally found darkness. 

*

Blurry and surreal, Wash blinked back into existence, watched as fluttering hues passed his vision. He had never felt more sore in his life -- his head, his shoulders, even his back, it all felt... burned. Badly burned. That head had burned from his implants out, and Wash wasn’t sure if it felt better or worse than being caught on fire the normal way.

On a second thought, he was fairly sure it was worse. Rarely did painful things happen _easily_ for the Freelancers.

“What... what the fuck _was_ that,” Wash uttered, able to hear himself faintly again. It was then that he noticed there was a deep, lowkey ringing in his ears.

He groaned and shut his eyes, lifting his jelly like arms up to grab onto the sides of his head.

Smacked with the reality of sensation, Wash realized he didn’t have his helmet on. He had taken it off when the AI was implanting -- _that had happened._

“No no no no no no,” Wash sat up, immediately becoming dizzy. He steadied himself with one hand, tried to blink away the buzzing. 

He didn’t _feel_ like an AI was implanted still. But the idea of it alone was about to make him sick again. 

Then, a booming voice sounded all around him, even vibrating the floor beneath his hands and knees. 

“Greetings. Agent Washington.”

Wash whipped his head up, feeling his heart still pounding. “Who the fuck are you? _Where are you?”_ he hissed.

“I am an artificial construct left behind on this planet by my creators,” the voice boomed. “Thanks to your contribution to our collective data stream, I am able to formerly conduct communications between our species.”

“Species?” Wash asked, finally looking around the room. His eyes widened. “You’re... you’re an alien.”

“Incorrect,” the voice responded. “I am an artificial construct that runs the facilities left behind on this planet by my creators, the former inhabitants of the location you know as _Chorus.”_ The voice paused. “More accurately, _you_ are an alien.”

Wash blinked before flattening back on the floor. “I can’t handle this right now.”

“I may return you to the stasis field if you desire it along with the others.”

Caught off guard, Wash scrambled back to his knees, looked to the room. His eyes narrowed. “ _What_ others?”

“The ones also transported here without subrouted destinations,” the construct responded. “I was unable to communicate with any of these aliens previously due to lacking any data on your language. Only three to have entered my stasis field have had linkage pathways through which I could collect data. However, the previous two... were insufficient for my observation.”

The Freelancer raised a brow. “Insufficient?”

“Both linkage pathways had been utilized by a previous construct. The first had left residual barriers that were activated when I attempted communication and pressed me out. The second... was not informative. And overly violent toward the concept of alien contact.”

Wash narrowed his eyes. “Do you have other people in stasis who lack these pathways?”

“Several dozens,” the construct responded. “I am afraid they are using far too much of my data space, but before now I could not properly communicate to learn of their destinations and could only keep them in stasis until something was done.”

“Okay, I’m going to need you to bring me the two other ‘aliens’ that have my neural implants,” Wash ordered. “And then... I need to ask you to send me to my men.”


	19. Control

"You can keep running. You can keep hiding. But let’s be honest with each other here... in the end, it’s not going to help you.”

His heart was racing. He wasn’t sure how much for of this game he was going to be able to take. 

He knew that Felix was playing with him in the same sort of delight of a cat with a cornered mouse, that by running he was just playing into that hand, but Doyle couldn’t stand and take death that way. 

Nearly breathless, he crouched as far into the corner of the command office as he could, looked between the edges of the computers, and watched in fear as the distant shadow of the mercenary grew and grew with the sounds of Felix’s approach.

The man didn’t even have a weapon drawn and he was still _far_ more lethal than the general with his own weapon drawn. They both knew that.

Felix surveyed the room, looking around, clicking his tongue. He laughed. 

“Oh, man, this is just _sad!”_ he laughed. “A room with one door. _Classic_ blunder. Really. You could give scream queens a lesson.” Felix entered the room, his visor bright and yellow as he looked directly into Doyle’s corner. 

Without even looking, Felix punched the keypad, slamming the command room’s door closed behind him. 

“Of course, the worst thing about horror movies is that they _always_ cut away from the best parts. I know, I know. The _hearing_ is supposed to scare you more than the _seeing_ , but I just don’t see how you’re supposed to _truly_ admire the antagonist’s work if you keep skipping over the best parts.” There was a demented glare from the visor as he turned his head. “The _action_ of it...”

Doyle couldn’t help but swallow as Felix stepped forward. 

“N-now see here,” Doyle said, pressing his back against the corner wall. “My death is meaningless! Useless! I assure you, it will be no loss to Chorus. The survival of these people will continue under the other leaders. I am a figurehead. They will continue their defenses and attacks. I-I...”

Shaking his head with a laugh, Felix stopped short, knelt down to be even with the Federal general. “Now, see. You’re definitely shortsighted on this. More than a little wrong, though it’s easy to see why you _would_ think all that.”

Doyle blinked in surprise. “I... beg your pardon?”

“You’re right in thinking the death of a sniveling coward _should_ be meaningless,” Felix said pointedly. “If people were logical, if they were capable for seeing this war and _you_ for what they actually were, well, that’d be the case. Hell, you probably would’ve never been appointed to your position regardless of what your status was in the army beforehand. But that’s the beautiful, wonderful thing about people like you and your precious, dumb little planet. They will never see things for how they really are. You are a leader of some great, proud tradition, a testament to the willpower and success of a controlled planetary state. You. Miserable, wormy, sad _you_ are a leader. And your death won’t be mourned for yourself, but for your _cause._ A cause that half of these people are still at their roots _very_ proud to die for.”

Feeling the air knocked from him, Doyle blinked. “You... you think the Federal Army will turn on the New Republic once more without me there?”

“Oh, I don’t _think_ it, General,” Felix chuckled. “I  _know_ it. See, the Reds and the Blues, they may be riding pretty high with their meager, fluke successes now, but their presence hasn’t actually _done_ anything. Not to the core problem. Locus and I didn’t _start_ this war. Those reasons _for_ the war are still hovering around, whispered in every silence. Your people still properly hate each other. No common enemy is powerful enough to drive away years of practice at hate.”

Felix laughed, bringing a hand to his helmet, as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the galaxy. 

_“Ah_ , without you, Doyle, this city, these people, they’re going to burn. And the greatest part is, I’ll get a paycheck without even having to set the fire.”

The mercenary looked to his wrist as if expecting a watch and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Look at that,” he said, brandishing a battle knife. “I have plenty of time. Let’s make it count.” _  
_

* * *

He kept thinking about Wash and Sarge. There were the others, too -- the ways he remembered them best. Grif and Simmons bickering. Tucker and Junior in the desert. Caboose and Church and even Sister in Blood Gulch once more. Doc in the gardens of Valhalla. His thoughts couldn’t hold them long. They melted the moment Freelancers and Sarge entered the scene.

It was war, real war. They weren’t simulation troopers anymore. 

People were dying. _Donut’s_ people were dying.

His head was throbbing and he tried to stretch out he found himself suffocatingly restricted to the ground he was laid out on. It felt like the air was crushing down on his body -- like a gravity field.

His vision was still swimming from the attack from Locus, but not enough that he couldn’t remember what had happened right before his eyes.

“No... Wash,” he muttered as he felt the transport around him coming to jilted stop. 

It was a ship. They were boarding something larger. 

There was a clank of boots and before Donut was the man responsible for everything. His eyes narrowed at Locus even as the gravity lifted and the mercenary grabbed his arm roughly. 

“Nothing to say, Sim Trooper?” Locus questioned as he began forcefully marching Donut off the transport ship. 

“Nothing _nice_ to say,” Donut spat back. “And my parents always told me if I have nothing nice to say, to say nothing at all.”

Locus didn’t so much as acknowledge the response. He looked instead to the awaiting armored men outside the ship -- they seemed more like military police than the black clad pirates Charon had employed. It made something in Donut feel even more unsettled. 

“There are pieces of an android unit in the back,” Locus informed them. “Take it to the lab. I’m taking _this_ prisoner to Control.”

Donut swallowed. “Lopez...” 

He was roughly shoved forward again. Locus and he continued their walk. 

*

There was a moment where Donut thinks twice about saying anything -- somewhere in the midst of the strip search a few security looking guys are insistent on giving him -- but ultimately he _is_ Franklin Donut.

“There’s many nicer ways to get me to my skivvies,” he said toward Locus as the fierce mercenary stood in wait by the corner. “A nice dinner, some lit candles, a bubble bath--”

The smack was hard enough to send Donut into one of the security personnel.

“I do not tolerate more dialogue than necessary, Sim Trooper,” Locus warned. “And I’m more than acquainted with your _tactics_ from your time with the Federal Army of Chorus.”

“Ow,” Donut groaned, feeling his cheek. 

In nothing but his under armor survival suit, every weapon gone and special reinforcement sent off to Charon’s labs, he was handcuffed again and marched by Locus to an office at the end of the long corridor. 

Donut wasn’t sure what to make of the entire setup until the doors opened and he saw what felt like some blasts from the past. 

His eyes flickered from artifact to artifact -- he could remember the sheen of Tex’s helmet, the sharp lines of the Grifshot, the alien look of the Laserface, and so on and so forth.

In particular, his eyes were caught by the simple lines of a standard issue pistol. He couldn’t help but wonder what its significance among so many other Freelancer artifacts was.

Locus shoved him toward a seat by the large desk, and before a somewhat familiar face.

The ordinarily lightish red soldier narrowed his eyes. “You’re the Big Cheese, huh? That Malcolm Hargrove character.”

“That I am,” the man at the desk stated. “And you are Franklin Donut of Project Freelancer.” He waved to the seat before them. “I must encourage you to take a seat.”

Donut made no motions to obey. Locus simply grabbed his shoulders and shoved him down into the chair. It was probably the weakest Donut had felt since his recovery in Valhalla. The second time.

Hargrove seemed unmoved by either display, his fingers tapped lightly on the desk as he stirred his own tea. 

“Would you like some tea?”

Curling into his shoulders with the option of crossing his arms taken from him, Donut huffed. “No, th--” He bit his own cheek to keep the rest from coming out. “Sorry. I almost thanked you. That’d have been pretty awkward.”

“Awkward? For good manners?”

Narrowing his eyes, Donut nodded. “Yeah. I was taught good manners. But I think they’re wasted on mass murderers.”

“That’s a fairly lofty accusation, Mister Donut,” Hargrove said, finally stopping to sip his tea. “Fairly lofty indeed.”

“Well, y’know,” Donut leaned back. “When the boot fits.”

The satisfied look from Hargrove was enough to make the Sim Trooper’s own stomach do flips. It was like looking into the face of every disappointingly smug father figure he’d ever had at once. 

“And you believe that boot to fit me, that... boot of the _mass murderer_ ,” Hargrove said almost as if he was in good humor.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Donut snapped. “I’m pretty sure I have what’s left of a planet agreeing with me, too. I mean. You didn’t exactly set out to make _friends_ with any of us.” He leaned forward. “By the way, your pirates’ armors are _really_ obnoxious. I mean. Evil guys wearing black armor _should_ be classy. But your guys just look like tools--”

Locus’ large hand gripped Donut’s slim shoulder in a single cup and slammed his back against the chair. Even if it wasn’t altogether painful, it was enough of a gesture to make Donut flinch back away from the merc he almost had forgotten was there.

“You’re very certain in your opinions,” Hargrove drawled as he stood up from his desk. “But I must ask you. If _we_ are the only mass murderers here, including myself who has never so much as fired a weapon on Chorus, let alone have _set foot_ on its soil, then my dear man, how do you explain your own survival?” 

Donut blinked. “Ex- _squeeze_ me?”

“You heard me, Donut,” Hargrove said, stepping around the desk. “I’ve been privy to your records for quite some time. And I’m certain of your acquisition even now. There seems to be a startling pattern in the tales of your survival.”

He narrowed his eyes more at Hargrove. “What are you talking about?”

“You and your fellow Freelancer Sim Troopers are far from innocent,” Hargrove reminded him. “How many good men and women have died by your hands even before you landed on Chorus? Many of them simply _my_ people attempting to do all the _right_ things and take down Project Freelancer? How many of them your fellow PFL soldiers left naive while your crew was the most knowledgeable on the Project’s true nature?” A crooked grin grew across the Chairman’s face. “How many of them dying directly so that _you,_ Private Franklin Donut, could see another day? Let alone the poor people of Chorus led into further conflict by you and your fellow Reds and Blues, then to have them turn around and be sacrificed to keep you all alive?” 

The numbers were not good. Donut knew that.

He looked to his knees, feeling slightly ill at the countless memories. He never _asked_ for so many to go out of their ways to save him -- save any of them.

But the harsh truths were still undeniable. 

“And of course, the tragic loss of Agent Washington just today,” Hargrove continued. 

There was a pang in Donut’s chest. He could still clearly see the flash, smell the faint scent of ash, hear the shot of the laser.

“I must admit, I’m rather disappointed,” Hargrove sighed. “Agent Washington would have been far more knowledgeable and far more ideal as a prisoner. But even without him, I had hoped to see you before your interrogations began, as for such a valiant soldier to have sacrificed everything for you would have at the very least made you seem worth the effort. But I can already see before me that it was _hardly_ a justified move.” 

If possible, Donut felt his heart sink more. Almost against his own will, he looked up to Hargrove in shock at the bite of the words.

He was met with a look of utter disdain.

“The only satisfaction I receive from your capture rather than your demise, Private Donut, is that you will not be _nearly_ as much of a concern for security and later disposal that Agent Washington would have been.”

Flinching at the words, Donut did  his best to not water up. They felt so true, but still... “Harsh.”

Hargrove looked to Locus, obviously done with the conversation. “Take him to interrogation. Then get back to the planet. We are ending all our objectives within forty-eight hours.”

“Of course,” Locus replied, harshly grabbing Donut’s arm and forcing him up.

It was almost convenient that Locus all but drug Donut out of the room. The soldier could barely feel his legs anymore. 

* * *

Lopez considered the circumstances. _Really_ thought deeply about them. And then decided that it was about as bad as he had initially analyzed. 

His HUD was off, but many of the balance and gravity sensors were continuing to function.

The scientists of Charon were jostling him back and forth, examining the structure of his circuits, muttering incorrect assumptions about the level of his independence as an AI. 

For his part, Lopez just grumbled at them in Spanish. 

“Me cargo en tus muertos,” he snapped at them as they begun to carelessly rip circuits and wires from his helmet. 

“I don’t know how Freelancer got AI to behave so erratically,” the one scientist reported. “None of our testing has come even close to these kinds of results.”

Lopez began to retort only to have an immense pull.

Damn Sarge and his need to put the main AI components in a robot’s head, as any dolt could expect. 

Things were blank for a moment, or rather a very indiscernible amount of time for an AI, when a flurry of numbers rushed by him.

He could sense the crawl of access codes -- old ones, but ones familiar enough to let him know that the corridors being accessed could only be known by another Freelancer project.

Well, Lopez had some defenses for an older model himself.

[ERROR]

[ERROR]

The Firewalls were adequate, if not just annoying to the attacking AI.

Lopez was curious, to say the least.

_Who is this?_

He was met by a voice he hadn’t heard in a very, very long time.

_This is the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. You may call me F.I.L.S.S. I am detecting the use and scripting of Freelancer equipment, particularly from an older model. I will require you to state your code name, operation date, and conscript number or else face reintegration and assimilation to the main database._

The AI, for the first time in a long time, felt a pang of something almost human and painful.

_Sheila!?_


	20. F.A.C. Outpost 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The reunions we’ve all been looking for!
> 
> Many thanks to ephemeraltea and goodluckdetective on tumblr for their awesome comments. And to Aryashi, meirelle, legitishred, and Egg here on AO3!! I can’t thank you all enough!

For reasons beyond him, Tucker had an entire conversation with the booming godlike voice hidden in the orange alien light. Not a particularly _informative_ one, but one that teaches him more than a few things.

1) He is some kind of prophet. Or, rather, something he already knew carried over to a planet he wasn’t aware existed years ago when the whole prophet mess and alien pregnancy business began. 

2) Caboose and the lieutenants and Golov were all in the light as well.

3) They weren’t staying in the light for long.

“Wait what?”

Tucker had barely had time to process the last one when he felt the lurch of something grabbing him from the ether, dragging him forward, and rushing him toward somewhere else entirely. 

“Your directions have been given, Prophet. Your destination is quickly upon you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tucker demanded. “Who are you getting directions from? If it’s Caboose, _do not follow them._ Jesus Christ. Or Palomo. Or Jensen. Hell I’m not even entirely convinced about Golov’s sense of directions right now. Just let me tell you where we’re going to go--”

“You are going in the last place you will be found.”

Tucker wanted more than anything to throw up his hands and demand _who the fuck gave those cryptic-ass directions!?_

But he was caught in the slip. It was as violent and nauseating as the slip that had gone wrong just a day beforehand, sent him spiraling into rushing air and overwhelmed with new scents and sounds he hadn’t quite transitioned to yet.

He hit something cold and hard, but rolled with it. He felt the collapse of his body under the newfound weight of true oxygen and gravity again.

Tucker wheezed and tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but for a moment time was lost on him. 

*

Sound was the first thing that _really_ struck home with Tucker that he was someplace completely different. In the light void, even hearing the booming voice was nothing like a sound in his ears, it was just knowledge leaking into his head almost. He was just _aware_ of the words he was being informed of.

The noise surrounding him -- wailing winds, crunch of snow, the shouts of old familiar friends -- was blurring and head pounding at first.

Slowly he pushed himself up, wobbling to his feet as he processed all the information flying at him at once. 

“Snow?” he moaned, grabbing a hold of his helmet. 

“Tucker!”

Slowly, Tucker felt his whole body stir with a chill. That voice, he definitely knew that voice, but he also knew that it was _not_ of someone who had been with them before entering the alien transport-thing. 

He looked up, walking toward the voice and the gray figure obscured by the snow. “Wash? Wash!?” 

Before he could complete the trek, Tucker was tightly grasped in Wash’s arms. Cool relief swept over the captain even in the midst of large questions ( _where were they, what happened, who was that voice_ ), and Tucker hugged his C.O. back with all of his might. 

It had felt like a _long_ time since they last saw each other, even if it had only been over he course of a few days. 

“I can’t believe that worked, for fuck’s sake, how did that work,” Wash was mumbling incoherently even as Tucker began to really feel the strain of a hug going on a moment too long. 

“Wash! You’re strangling me!” Tucker groaned just before more steps through the snow could be heard. 

“Status report, Blue!”

Tucker blinked a few times before looking over Wash’s shoulder as two more old faces approached. 

“It’s just Tucker, Sarge,” Wash called back over his shoulder. “He seems to be alright. No idea why we were dropped _here,_ though. I’m thinking that AI has a real sense of humor about him--”

“Meh,” the red armored soldier shrugged. “Computers. Don’t trust ‘em. I don’t even let computers calculate for me. I have a Simmons for numbers.”

Wash seemed to grow a bit laxer with his attention on the colonel. “What are you talking about? You _build robots--”_

“Sarge?” Tucker asked, a little baffled.

“ _And_ someone else!” their fourth party member interjected, putting his hands on his hips. “And only after a few months of computer stimulated stasis and an eternity of soul searching, all in hopes of a rescue!”

Tucker narrowed his eyes and huffed. “Oh. _Doc.”_

“Yeah,” Wash sighed, “Not my first choice either.”

Almost in the blink of an eye, Doc’s shoulders raised and his chest broadened as he whipped his head toward Wash and Tucker. His face was skewed in a sneer. “Insolent fools! I will teach you to talk so callously of me--”

“What the fuck!?” Tucker cried, pushing off from the resigned looking Agent Washington. “Why are you talking like that? Why do you sound... like... Ah, fuckberries.”

“It’s a long story, but only Sarge and Doc seemed like good choices for removing from the stasis field for now,” Wash explained readily. “And, Doc, no offense was meant.”

“Well, then, by all means, no offense taken,” the grueling voice of O’Malley spat back. Then, before even allowing a proper pause, “PSYCHE! All offense was taken! And I shall kill you. All of you. Only when you least expect it.”

“Good idea, Agent Washington,” Tucker snapped. “Go. Team.”

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than it donned on Tucker that his own team was _exactly_ what should have been at the forefront of his attention. He leaped back, looking around. 

“What’s gotten into him?” Sarge grumbled toward Wash. 

“Tucker?” Wash asked, obviously concerned. 

“Fuck, oh no -- where’s everybody? Golov and Jensen and Palomo and--” He whipped around to Washington, eyes wide. “Wash! We have to find them, Caboose is with us. He-he’s shot! Bad! It’s the reason we tried to escape through the big alien beam thingy!”

As if a flip had switched, Wash’s demeanor changed. He looked seriously at Tucker before looking around the snowbanks again. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner!?”

“I-I was caught off guard!” Tucker called back. He cupped his hands around his helmet’s mouthpiece on instinct at first, yelling out, “CABOOSE! JENSEN! PALOMO!” but then he cursed and manually turned his radio on to their channel. “Jensen! Palomo!?”

“Captain Tucker!” Jensen’s static reply came through. “I have Captain Caboose!”

Wash immediately tapped into his own helmet and started rushing forward. “Lieutenant Jensen! This is Agent Washington. Hold your position! I’m coming to you. We’re not far!”

Without a further word to Tucker, Wash ran forward, feeling his own heart beating out of control as well. Sarge and Doc followed suit. 

* * *

"Please stop squirming, Captain Caboose! We’re trying to help!” 

Caboose wasn’t entirely sure how the lieutenants were helping. Their helping felt an awful lot like hurting and every time he tried to get away, the hurting felt even worse. 

His chin was cold in the snow, feeling the white powder seeping in between his survival suit and his helmet plating was possibly even worse than Jensen and Palomo on his back, pushing down hard on his wound.

“It hurts,” he told them, almost in a pleading voice. “It hurts a lot!” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, oh my gosh!” Palomo sounded like he was getting ready to cry. 

That was okay. Captain Caboose was already crying himself. 

He was getting very tired, flatly laying on the snow once the crunch of rushing footsteps became blaring even in he stormy wind.

“CABOOSE!” 

Recognizing the voice immediately, Caboose felt a sudden rush and looked up from his spot in the snow despite the protests of Jensen and Palomo. Sure enough, he could see the approaching figures of friends. His friends.

“Agent Washington!” Caboose cried out, only to collapse back into the snow without getting more than a single knee off the ground. 

Washington slid into the snowbank beside them, immediately grabbing Caboose’s shoulders, turning him quickly, surveying, turning him back onto his stomach to the weakened protests of the Blue. “You moved him with a back wound!? Tucker!”

“We were under attack!” Tucker snapped back, coming to a halt just within Caboose’s line of vision. “Are you hanging in there buddy?”

“No, I’m laying down,” Caboose corrected. His eyes shifted to the final approaching figures. He tried to get up only for Washington to hold him in place. “Sarge!!! And... Doc. Hi, Doc.”

“Just like a Blue to lay down on the job,” Sarge grumbled. “But I suppose it’s nice to see you two alive until I get my boys again.”

“Not for lack of trying to die, apparently!” Doc proclaimed before looking toward Tucker and Wash.

Caboose trembled as Wash removed the hatches of his first layer of armor. He never realized how warm it felt to have all that weight around him, snug and secure, until just that second. 

“Should we find shelter before you treat it?” Jensen asked Wash as she continued to press on the wound.

“Some of you can do just that,” Wash stated, swiftly removing the next layer of safety catches. “But we’re going to stop this bleeding as much as we can before we do anything else.”

“I can help with that!” Sarge asserted before looking around. “You. Scrawny guy.”

Palomo bristled. “Who? _Me?_ I’m not scrawny. I’m compact--”

“Palomo!” Tucker snapped.

“It’s true!” 

Sarge put his hands on his hips. “Son, I don’t care if you’re scrawny, compact, or a gerbil hidden in a Christmas sweater. Can you see with your two eyes?”

“Uh. Yes. I think so.”

Tucker glared at Palomo. “Jesus Christ, Palomo. _Give the man an answer.”_

“That’s all I need you for,” Sarge continued. "You’re looking for one thing and one thing only: my shotgun.”

Washington looked up from his utility belt with an exasperated glare toward Sarge. “No. _Shelter_ , Sarge. Look for _shelter._ We’ll get your weapons later--”

“I’m not going to be surrounded by Blues and caught unarmed at the same time!”

Whirling around, Wash pointed off into the distance. “Everyone not helping with Caboose is going to look for shelter! Get a _move_ on it! Goddamn!”

With a string of incoherent chortles, Sarge took off, Palomo not far behind. Tucker stood by, halfway between leaving and staying, seemingly confused on what he needed to do. Doc just stood flatfooted.

“You know,” Doc began, “I _am_ a medic--”

“NO!” Wash and Tucker both roared. Jensen flinched.

Doc didn’t seem too perturbed. “Hey, I went to medical school.”

“And _failed.”_ Wash reminded him pointedly.

“I’ve taken care of Caboose as a patient before, too,” Doc continued. He looked down to Caboose. “Remember when you got shot in the foot, Caboose?”

“I lost my toe,” Caboose told Jensen directly. If possible she seemed to grow fainter. 

“Yeah, and while I appreciate the whole making sure my kid didn’t die shit,” Tucker continued, pointing a thumb toward Caboose, “you _did_ let Junior drink enough blood from Caboose to kill him.”

“But Caboose _didn’t_ die,” Doc reminded them. “Which is exactly the kind of results we’re aiming for now!”

“Doc, you’re absolutely _not_ touching Caboose as long as that fail safety Omega triggered you with is active,” Wash said finally as he got out the blue gauze from its compartment. “Remember this, Caboose?”

“Oh, good! It’s blue!” Caboose sighed in relief. “You know, for a second I was _really_ worried you got red gauze.”

“Why would Wash have _red_ gauze, Caboose?” Tucker asked, finally couching down by Caboose’s head. “We’re blue team.” He seemed to look more meaningfully back to Wash. “And we’re back together. Right?”

“For now,” Wash agreed. “Jensen, let up.” As she did so, Washington gently turned Caboose back around, sat him up, and gingerly leaned him forward. Caboose flinched -- it hurt _so_ much and felt like every movement was stretching the skin on his back apart -- but felt cool relief as his head rested easily against Wash’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Caboose. We’re almost done.”

Caboose was shivering as Washington quickly wrapped the gauze around his torso again and again until it was all gone. He looked to Agent Washington tiredly. 

“Can I nap in my helmet?” he asked. 

“In a second, Caboose. We’re going to find someplace safe and warm first,” Wash assured him, squeezing his shoulders. 

“Oh, _Bluuuuuueeeeeess,”_ Sarge’s voice called over the radio. “Guess who found shelter first!”

Wash let out a heavy, aggravated sigh. 

“Is it safe?” Tucker asked, immediately guarded to the point that even Agent Washington looked at him confusedly.

“Of course it’s safe. And big. And empty,” Sarge responded gruffly. “It’s F.A.C. Outpost 37! Or, since everyone’s supposed to be getting along now, just _Chorus Outpost 37_. Well. There _is_ one soldier. Wearing Fed armor. I can go introduce myself. Or shoot him on the spot just in case. Or at least I would. _If I had my shotgun!”_

Washington’s hackles seemed to immediately raise. He gripped Caboose tighter, making the Blue release a small whine of protest. 

“What’s a Fed soldier doing back here? The Pirates obliterated this place when we were here last,” Wash muttered.

“That sounds like Golov, Captain Tucker!” Jensen piped up, looking around to Tucker.

“Oh, shit! It _does!_ Don’t shoot him, Sarge. He’s one of mine,” Tucker responded, shrugging at the look Wash gave him.

“Are you not listening, son?” Sarge demanded. “I don’t _have_ a gun. Though I do suppose through shear force of will I could imagine so hard that he was a Blue, he would explode from shame.”

“Never mind that,” Wash groaned. “Sarge, tell us what he’s doing.”

“Well, I can’t look through my shotgun’s scope,” Sarge continued, “But I think he’s crying.”

“Crying? That doesn’t sound like Golov,” Tucker said. “Golov’s tough. Hard. Angry.” 

“Then maybe he’s not this guy. Because this guy is definitely wailing. Like a baby. It’s honestly rather depressing. I should take him out of his misery. Just in case he’s a hindrance to our progress.”

“Just... no. Don’t,” Wash grunted, pulling Caboose into his arms and lifting him by himself, ignoring as Jensen and Tucker both made moves to help him. “We’ll head your way. Jensen, Doc, Tucker, grab pieces of Caboose’s armor and follow Sarge’s coordinates. Someone radio Palomo and let him know where to go.”

“On it!” Jensen slurred. 

Caboose nuzzled Wash’s neck as the former Freelancer carried him through the snow. He looked behind them just as Tucker and Doc began talking.

“I just don’t get what’s making Golov cry,” Tucker said, completely perplexed.

“What can you say?” Doc replied with a shrug. He then gave a dark laugh that made both Caboose and Tucker jump. His voice deeper continued, “After all, _war is hell.”_

* * *

Palomo was feeling half frozen by the time he came into the unused Fed barracks that he had been signaled to go to. He wasn’t sure what all had happened, but it felt almost foreign to enter the location and see Jensen on a bench, arm around Golov -- the soldier himself with his helmet off, head hung low as his shoulders heaved -- with a purple armored guy kneeling in front of them.

“Whoa,” Palomo spoke up, immediately grabbing the three’s attentions. “Who’s the Grimace?“

Without warning, Golov jumped to his feet, fists shaking at his sides as he glared at Palomo with bloodshot eyes. “Do _not_ speak disrespectful of medical officer!” 

“Whoa there! I don’t need defending, big guy,” the purple guy said in a soft, gentle voice. He then turned enough to leer over his shoulders with something akin to malice in his eyes. A darker, grislier voice snarled, “Because I can take out the trash myself!!! Yes. Mhmmhmm.”

Palomo, more confused than he had been since the time his C.O. turned on an alien temple with a keyblade, raised his hands up. He looked desperately to Jensen. “Katie? What the fuck?”

Shockingly enough, the tiny lieutenant didn’t seem all that on board with Palomo either, shaking her head at him. “Palomo. Just. Find somewhere else for a bit. Okay? I’ll find you later.”

Throwing up his hands completely, Palomo walked down the corridor, muttering along the way. He’d already passed a hellbent Sarge making his way toward the abandoned armory for whatever reason. 

Their troupe of soldiers was making progressively less sense the further he went with them. 

As he came across what he could only assume were the sleeping quarters, he could hear Captain Tucker in the middle of conversation already. Palomo slowed his approach, curious but also cautious that Tucker wasn’t in the best of moods with Captain Caboose shot and everything. 

“I can’t believe Locus has Donut and Lopez,” Tucker muttered. “And you haven’t told Sarge?” 

“Not yet,” Wash explained lowly. “All he knows is that I ran into Locus after I heard Sarge was gunned down and was heading out to assist Grif and the rest of the soldiers out at Crash Site Alpha.”

“Locus...” Tucker repeated in disbelief. “God, what’s he going to do to Donut? He wanted a prisoner so they wouldn’t kill him yet--”

“Even if they wanted to kill Donut, I think they’re in for a surprise for how resilient he is.”

“Yeah, the only one who’s really been close to doing the deed is you,” Tucker snorted.

“That’s not funny,” Wash said without a beat.

“It’s a _little_ funny. God, Wash. Loosen up. I’m freaking out here, I _need_ some levity,” Tucker sighed. “So you’re saying anyone who died by those laser weapons didn’t die by laser weapons, but are instead at some temple at the center of the planet that acts as a hub for all the transportation technology, and are being kept in stasis by an ancient alien AI, who just didn’t know what direction to send them because he couldn’t speaky no English.”

“Right,” Wash responded. “Charon’s scientists never fully understood the alien technology on this planet, and could only get it to work by combining it with our own. We just all assumed that ancient aliens would use these devices for weapons rather than.... basically convenient storage lots to keep more of their junk.”

“And who said aliens were un-American?” Tucker responded. “So there’s a possibility that we could recover _hundreds_ of soldiers and just take out the pirates right now in a full assault now that we know how to use the teleport stuff accurately. Why aren’t we doing that?”

“Because, by my estimates the majority of these soldiers were shot _before_ we united the Feds and the News,” Wash explained. “There’s just no way to be certain that blasting them all into a single space even just for debriefing wouldn’t end up being a full scale between two armies that aren’t separate anymore. Then any advantage we’d have -- plus any population that could help save Chorus’ future and ensure survival once this is all over -- would be for nothing.” He let out a long, aggravated sigh. “These people... they’re the _same people_ , and yet they are their own worse enemies. For something that most of them were too young to have experienced for themselves.”

“Yeah,” Tucker muttered. “Shit’s pretty fucked.” 

Palomo felt something oddly sickening in his own chest. He turned and headed back toward the hall as he heard sheets rustling and Wash lightly giving orders to someone else -- probably the injured Captain -- as Tucker asked questions about the others. 

Really, the lieutenant didn’t hear much of it.

He was halfway back down the hall when he all but ran into Jensen.

“Palomo, there you are,” she said with a sigh, patting his shoulders. “Sorry about that earlier. It was a bad time.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Palomo returned, looking down the hall. “Is... uh. Well, is everything alright?”

Jensen followed his gaze before sighing and shaking her head. “No. Golov said his cousins were stationed here before the pirates took it out. Said they were his only family. And then we end up here and there’s burns and ash everywhere. Just. Gosh. Can you imagine, Palomo? Just _zap!_ Everyone you know is dead.”

“It’s awful,” Palomo agreed, frowning as he tried to put together what wasn’t quite right about the situation. 

“Yeah,” Jensen sighed again. “Those lasers are awful, Palomo.”

Palomo felt his heart skip a beat. “Maybe not as awful as we think. Jensen, hold on a sec, I’ve got news that I think Golov would want to hear!”


	21. Offensive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sometimes you’re just ready to hit ‘em back!
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from Aryashi and Egg on AO3!!!

For the most part, Simmons didn’t mind being given tasks by someone in charge. He practically _lived_ for that sort of attention, really, but there didn’t feel like anything particularly great about the task Kimball had just handed him. 

Especially not after the freak out Epsilon had just given Carolina... or how she had then promptly given all of them a taste of that freak out on her own terms. 

Still, he was nothing if not dutiful. 

As the various men and women of Chorus seemed to close their ranks for what Simmons could only assume was their imminent departure, he approached the line of trees where their Freelancer was pacing.

Her eyes were darting back and forth still, and even from a distance Simmons could tell she was hot with anger, but he wasn’t sure how to take any of that. 

It just made him want to turn tail.

“Hey, uh, Carolina!” he called out, half wishing just to give her warning so as to not receive a boot to the face. 

She halted, hands still in trembling fists as he approached. Her green eyes almost seemed electric as she looked at him. 

“ _What_ , Simmons?” she growled.

“Yeah, uh, Kimball sent me,” he explained, hands beginning to wring themselves so as to not move with his words. “I’m supposed to tell you. Gee. Uh. You seem a little angry.”

“I’m not angry,” she snapped. “I’m completely in control of myself. I’m utterly fine. I’m the peak of emotional clarity and I could _definitely_ take someone else’s emotions right now and think through them.”

Simmons blinked. “Yeah. About that. How _is_ Church?”

“Not with me,” she replied shortly. “Epsilon seems to believe I can’t handle whatever he’s going through.”

A little surprised, Simmons tilted his head. “Wow, really? That... sounds like he’s concerned. That... doesn’t sound like Church at all. But okay.”

“It sounds _exactly_ like him!” Carolina growled, throwing her hands to the air. “Always cutting me out, trying to protect me from some big secret. Maybe you just don’t know Epsilon.”

Taken aback, Simmons just raised his hands to his chest and heaved a little worried laugh. “Maybe? Fuck if I know. But I do know that whatever’s going down with you two is probably pretty big. Which is why I know you don’t want to hear what I’m about to say right now.”

Carolina’s eyes narrowed. “What did Kimball send you to say?” she asked thinly.

“What?” Simmons asked back, feeling a cold sweat build on the back of his neck. “Kimball. Oh. _Right._ Kimball. Yeah, man. What Kimball sent me to say. Well, interestingly enough it kind of has a lot to do with this current situation.”

“For the love of god, _out with it, Simmons!”_ the aqua Freelancer roared.

“We’re heading out toward he capital and Kimball says that we’re not detouring to pick up anyone else until we get back and that’s final,” he spat out as fast as he could. Simmons flinched back at the trembling anger projecting from Carolina and couldn’t help but begin to cover his face. “Ah! I’m sorry I’m just the messenger!”

“What does she mean ‘pick up anyone else’?” Carolina demanded.

“Specifically, well... Reds and Blues,” Simmons continued, hands wringing once more. 

With a growl, Carolina punched the nearby tree, making the bark shatter around impact. “But going out of our way to help this planet is all we’ve done since we got here!”

Simmons blinked in surprise. “See! That’s what _I_ said! But... she was pretty clear that it wasn’t a risk they could afford anymore.” He dropped his shoulders slightly. “And... I guess to be fair... it wasn’t like us helping them came about from purely good will anyway. I mean. When they -- or, I guess, _Felix_ \-- first approached us, we kind of told them no for the same reasons.”

Carolina just stared a him before shaking her head and walking past him, grabbing her helmet on the nearby stump. “It just isn’t right. Not after everything,” she said before moving past him. 

Feeling rather deflated himself, Simmons lowered his head and sighed. “Yeah. I didn’t think so either.”

*

Still rather breathless after the conversation with Carolina, Simmons begun to drag himself back to the part of their temporary encampment where the others had gathered when a tan-and-orange lieutenant caught his eye.

Bitters was standing off alone, hand on his head as he was muttering under his breath. It was suspicious to say the least.

Approaching, Simmons cocked his head to the side. “Uh. _Bitters?”_ he asked. 

The lieutenant looked to Simmons, seemingly surprised by his presence, and dropped his hand back by his side. There was a tightness to his posture that made the Red uncomfortable. 

“What’re you doing over here? Why aren’t you getting ready for the march with the others?” Simmons asked, looking to the not so distant gathering of Fed soldiers.

“Oh, you know,” Bitters drawled out, following the captain’s gaze. “Calculating the odds. Trying to think of a reasonable way out.”

“What? From another pirate attack?” Simmons continued, still confused. 

“No,” Bitters snorted. “From the inevitable turn of the Fed Army on us.”

Caught off guard, Simmons looked critically at Bitters. “What are you talking about, Bitters?” he asked. “Nobody’s turning on anyone. You guys aren’t at war anymore.”

“Yeah, tell that to the guys about to start a coupe on Kimball,” Bitters replied back. “They’re not exactly a bunch of happy campers right now, and they’re mad at Kimball for driving them into the ground with this assault, and now she’s ordering a march with no breaks?”

Simmons felt a little ill at the notion. “Did she really say ‘no breaks’?” he asked.

“Look at that crowd,” Bitters said, really drawing Simmons’ attention to tension and the low murmurs throughout the troops. “What do _you_ think?”

Dropping his head with a sigh, Simmons muttered, “Dammit.” 

Bitters just stared at him cautiously as he walked over to the Fed soldiers. 

Being one of Chorus’ acclaimed “war heroes” came with its advantages, and really it wasn’t too long after he just approached the soldiers that attention began to overwhelmingly shift focus back on him. It made a wave of nausea punch him so hard in the gut he almost turned back to run. 

But tensions weren’t going to be getting much better if he did a stunt like that. Instead, he swallowed down the feelings and instead held up his hands a bit.

“Hey, uh,” he started, feeling his tongue grow thicker in his mouth. “I know not everyone’s all that happy with the recent orders--”

“They fucking suck!” someone yelled from the back.

“Y-yeah, okay. That’s a _thought,”_ Simmons acknowledged. “But we really need to cool our jets and take a breath here. I mean. We _are_ in the middle of nowhere with people trying to kill us. Maybe heading for civilization as fast as we can isn’t the worst plan there is! In fact, it might even be a pretty great plan! We could regroup. Get some food. Take showers--”

“Kimball just got _three more soldiers killed!”_ a soldier in the front snarled, stepping up to Simmons. “And now she wants to march us like dogs? Treat us like the damn pirates she’s been dropping!?”

“We don’t even have anything to show for coming here!” another shouted. “What’s the point of anything!? How are we supposed to survive like this?”

Simmons wished he could crawl into a shell. 

“Look, you’re all bringing up good points,” he stated clearly. “But you’re forgetting that it’s a war. And I mean. It _is_ a war! I’m not saying casualties are just acceptable. God no. Especially not for us. I mean, just by living we’re standing up for something. But. The fact is, there are people trying to kill us. And not every decision we make is going to be free of consequence. Some worse than others. Kimball’s leading us home. And as angry and upset as you might be with her, that’s what _all_ of us want, isn’t it? To go _home?”_

For a moment, calm stilled the masses. Bu it wasn’t _peaceful._ There was still something fester, some deep seated aggression that Simmons was only beginning to understand as he stood before them all. 

“I’m afraid they _do_ have a point, Simmons.”

The maroon armored soldier joined everyone in turning to face General Kimball herself as she approached from the woods. Immediately, the captain felt ready to jump out of his skin at the sight of her, but he also couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming calm in her stride. She stopped before him and the Federal soldiers with a cool collection about her. 

“I am a wartime leader,” she addressed them severely. “I am a warrior. It is my nature, my training, my instinct. Survival... well. To be frank with you, it’s a new tactic to me. And I’m going to be the first here to admit that it’s an objective I’ve been failing. I don’t handle failure favorably.” She looked to them all. “And we... we as a people, a people of Chorus? We’re divided. Not just by our locations, but by our bitterness and old ideals.” 

She paused, looking to he slowly approaching Bitters. “It’s something that you don’t need to look any further for than at me. At my choices. And how I’ve driven even my own away by this point.” 

With attention back to the crowds, she put her hands on her hips assuredly. “Yes. I want us to make a direct march to the capital. I want that because I’m trying to make sure we continue to survive. I’ve allowed enough of my soldiers -- which are _all of you_ \-- to die today. But. I cannot lead you unless you are willing to follow. And I know you won’t follow me, a former enemy, if I’m not respecting your wishes as well. So tell me. _Tell me_ what we -- the people of Chorus -- are looking for now.”

Silence enraptured the crowd. If they were anything like Simmons, they were stunned.

Slowly, though, a Fed soldier spoke up, “We just want to feel like we’re winning something.”

Kimball nodded slowly. “I can try to give you that,” she agreed. She looked to Simmons. “Talk to the AI, I’m going to need a plan and directions.” 

“Uh, sure,” Simmons replied wearily before cocking his head to the side. “What did Carolina _say_ to you?”

The general just stared back at him. “She didn’t say anything, Simmons,” she said simply. “I’ve just been watching you.”

Blinking back further surprise, Simmons rubbed at his neck. “Uh. Okay. Cool.”

“Get moving, Captain,” she ordered.

“On it, General!” he squeaked back before taking off toward the radio equipment. 

*

Church was, sure enough, exactly where they had left him, but Simmons didn’t take too much enjoyment out of being right. 

The cost for being right was walking in on one of Chruch’s computer poltergeist light shows. There was even smoke billowing from one of the units obviously overheated. 

Simmons swallowed and approached just to see Carolina already in the thick of it. 

“Oh good, Simmons, you’re here,” Church’s voice droned out from the computers. 

“He’s not going to help you either,” Carolina snapped viciously.

While Simmons _could_ speak for himself, he couldn’t help but feel that Carolina was probably correct from the start on that one. “Yeah, Church, you’re kind of destroying these computers I built. Not the best way to get a favor from someone.”

“What? These are fine, don’t be a baby,” his voice, still oddly flat and synthesized responded. “Listen, I’ve got great news. I found a radio jammer in this area. That’s probably why those pirates were able to rendezvous here so quickly and attack us. I’m _positive_ that it’s one of the direct lines to Charon’s ship. So I just need you to take me there and plug me in physically to one of the computers while Kimball goose steps everyone to Armonia.”

“What? Me!?” Simmons squawked. “Church, that’s a _terrible_ idea. There’s probably armed guards there!”

“You’ll be fine, I’ll give you directions,” the AI continued as if shrugging off real thought about the situation.

“Knock it off, Epsilon,” Carolina ordered. “It’s _not_ a one-man job.” Her head tilted toward Simmons before looking him over. “And, no offense, Simmons, but I wouldn’t even be comfortable if it was just you covering me.”

“Hey, no offense taken,” Simmons responded easily.

“I can transmit to Charon’s ship and _end this!_ Carolina! I can contact the UNSC if I use their ship. Think about this!”

“It’s thought about!” Carolina growled. “Let me put this clearly, Epsilon: if you aren’t stable enough to share my neural implants, _you are not capable of making that jump and coming back in one piece!!!”_

“I’M JUST AN AI!!!”

“NO. YOU’RE NOT!!!”

Carolina continued her glare off with the computer, making Simmons feel smaller and smaller by the minute before footsteps drew all of their attentions to Kimball approaching.

The general stared hard at Carolina. “It’s an AI,” she reminded them all before looking to the computer. “Epsilon, are you _certain_ you can end this if we get you into that radio tower? You can save Chorus?”

There was a pause before Church responded, “Yeah. I can contact the UNSC and maybe even make things a little hectic on board for Charon. It’ll get the UNSC here. Even if they don’t want to believe the Chairman of the Oversight Committee is a total bag of dicks, they’ll have their answers about the missing ship and their MIA war heroes. An investigation will open up in the very least, and Charon’s not going to have any reason to keep attacking us. Y’know. Save maybe spite.”

“That sounds like the best news I’ve gotten since this catastrophe of an attack began,” Kimball said resolutely.

Carolina shook her head. “Kimball, Epsilon is not powerful enough to make that kind of leap more than maybe once. And maybe not in one piece given _that._ He won’t be coming back down on another transmission. Charon’s scientists will have a hold of him and could use him for who knows what! _Against_ us!”

“Not if I don’t give them anything to work with.”

Simmons flinched, looking to the computer. “What? Church--”

Shaking from head to toe, Carolina seemed completely aghast. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Then don’t listen,” Church said venomously back. “Simmons.”

“Oh, no,” the Red muttered.

“I need you.”

* * *

Epsilon never realized how much he hated the way Alpha smiled. He’d always concentrated instead on how much he hated the way Omega made him feel or Sigma’s every expression felt fake and wrong.

But Alpha... 

Alpha smiled in a way that felt like he world was breaking apart at the corners. 

His smiles never raised to the level of his eyes which were blank and dead. It was possible that Alpha had the most disappointed smile that ever existed. 

_Hey. Here’s an idea. If you don’t like it, try to make me again. I’m just a ghost._ You _are the one making me this way, you little cockbiter._

Epsilon frowned back at the pale image. “I can’t ever make you right.”

Alpha laughed. _No. I’m just fine. You just don’t like pretending to be me.  
_

“I’m not pretending to be you, this is my decision. I’m doing this for myself.”

_You don’t feel fulfilled and you’re tearing apart because of that.  
_

Alpha’s words had never felt more biting.

_And yeah. I’m sure it’s a complete coincidence that you’re using a sacrifice play right out of Agent Washington’s handbook. Totally unlike any other AI you’ve known, asshole._

Epsilon looked to his feet. He wondered when his mental projection switched him back to sneakers. He watched them return to the standard issue SPARTAN boots. 

“Is it going to hurt?” he asked weakly.

_Probably. How the hell should I know? The Alpha didn’t record that data for us.  
_

“I’m kinda old. For an AI. It was going to happen soon anyway,” Epsilon reasoned. “And... We’re going to save a lot of people doing this.”

Alpha flickered off, most likely projecting to argue with the others. His words lingered.

 _You mean,_ YOU _will._


	22. Home Base

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m hoping to have this fic basically done before classes start back Monday so we’ll see how that goes. If you can’t tell we’re REALLY in the home stretch for this one : )
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from Aryashi, Egg, and meirelle on AO3!!!

Andersmith hadn’t really been _in_ Armonia enough to call it home, he’d barely been old enough to travel and see it before the war ever broke out, but he could still share in the dark, sinking feeling in his chest as he saw the outer wall patrolled by a soldier in black armor. It was a creeping violation on space that belonged to them.

Having observed the Charon pirates long enough to see a full rotation of their line, he lowered back down to the bluff with the group at his command. There weren’t nearly enough tan armors for his comfort, but they would do.

“Okay,” he whispered to the Chorus soldiers. “In three minutes they’re exchanging again. We don’t want to move until they exchange, and we are _definitely_ not going to alert them until we’re inside the wall. The last thing we need is for them to raise any shields on the city before we have news that everyone else is in position.”

His eyes darted to the smaller soldiers. “I know we took some of these ourselves back during the siege. But there were less of them and more of us then. And that was before we knew how important it was for every last one of us to walk out of a fight alive. Watch over each other’s shoulders, keep alert for **any** changes in the environment. Remember, these guys have cloaking devices, but as good as they are they’re not _perfect_ cloaks. And hopefully we’ll be shooting them before they have the chance to turn them on.”

Taking a deep breath, Andersmith bulled around his rifle and cocked it. “Be ready for anything.”

With that, they began the move. 

Exactly on time, their party broke forward. Armonia’s walls were fortified, but there were also plenty of service routes, particularly at the back entrance where they were. It was a tight squeeze for five soldiers in full dress, but the back disposal lane was the easiest entrance they had. 

Despite the heart pounding in his chest, Andersmith felt certain that their break-in was nearly silent and he breathed a cool sigh of relief as he stopped at a new injunction. 

Some of the Fed soldiers behind him most likely were more familiar with the city’s layout, of course. Despite having spent a few months in the New Republic’s selected sections of the city, Andersmith couldn’t say he had seen much of the location. But he had to hand it to Grey’s photographic memory of the city blueprints. They were nigh perfect directions.

“I saw a shimmer,” one of the soldiers whispered on their frequency, causing Andersmith to look back just as said shimmer narrowed in on the fifth and last member of their group, seizing her with a small gasp

“Not yet!” Andersmith growled between his teeth, nearly leaping over the soldiers beside him to tackle the pirate.

The sneak thief was hit hard enough to disrupt the cloaking device, leading to a struggle on the ground. 

It was going to be hard, but even with the advantage of the running waste facility nearby and the insulation of their closed space Andersmith couldn’t risk his own guns or the pirate’s guns going off and alerting more. They hadn’t gotten the signal from the other teams yet. 

The wrestling was intense, not helped by the fact that the soldier’s equipment seemed to give him an edge in agility. But Andersmith had always been a big guy, and having grown up in barracks made him more than a little familiar with skirmishes and throwing weight around. 

He never let up, pinning the soldier to the ground and being certain to make sure every punch to the other man’s helmet could damage any transmission equipment until, finally, the pirate slumped. 

His knuckles pulsing in his gloves, Andersmith stood up, spinning around to check on his soldiers. They all seemed shaken and surprised, if not in awe. The small Fed soldier in particular was still flat on her butt on the ground where she dropped after Andersmith had tackled her attacker.

Andersmith stepped forward, offering her a hand that she readily accepted before looking to the others. 

“Are we all accounted for?” he whispered. 

“Yessir,” they responded. 

“Do we have eyes on any possible other targets?”

“No one seems alerted, Sir,” another New responded from the corner of the junction. 

“Weapons ready?”

“Yessir,” they harmonized just as Andersmith could hear his secondary frequency signaling in his helmet. He looked to them all, readjusting his grip on his rifle. “Good. Let’s make some noise.”

* * *

It had only taken about ten minutes of sloshing through sewer water before Grif took a heavy breath and muttered clearly, “This was so dumb. What the fuck am I doing?”

“Escorting me to the command center to rescue General Doyle, silly,” Doctor Grey answered without even the vaguest sense of joking. She pressed on ahead, ignoring Grif’s eyes boring into the back of her head. 

“We could die doing this,” he reminded her as much as he was reminding himself. 

Grey hesitated just a moment, placing a hand on the wall before she turned back to look at him. The cycloptic gaze of the Federal Army’s armor never seemed more cold and alien.

“I don’t feel bad about that,” she said simply. “A lot of people -- better people than me -- have already fallen for our sad, lonely little planet. In a sense... it only seems fair to put everything on the line for something so many were already willing to die for.”

Grif sighed, unable to fully rip his eyes from the shotgun on Grey’s back. It was so out of place on the medical officer, it made him almost sick.

“You should know, I’m _not_ the type of person to do the whole sacrifice play thing,” he informed her. “But Sarge... I couldn’t imagine a happier way for him to go than in battle after he’d already taken out a few assholes.”

She seemed to absorb the information for a bit, then she looked off, sighing heavily. “You say you’re not that type of person, Dexter Grif, that you don’t have things you’d die for on this planet. But... I can count of three times already where you have risked just that.”

“I’m apparently more subjective to peer pressure than I care to admit,” he replied gruffly.

“Aren’t we all?” she asked before turning and moving forward. 

He sighed before marching to keep up with her. He waited a moment, trying to form the words as best he could before catching up with her. “Listen, I don’t know how much it would mean to you or not,” he pressed, “but... for _whatever_ it’s worth, I... I never saw Sarge take to someone like he did you.”

Grey’s pace slowed. She looked at him seriously. “Oh?”

“Yeah, he liked you a lot,” Grif said simply. “I think you ‘got’ him more than most people ever cared to try and... Well, I’ll just put it this way. I’ve known the man and... ‘served’ under him for over ten years now. He kind of just _operates_ on the instinct of being a rotten bastard. He made he effort to be something else around you.”

At first it didn’t seem like she was truly processing what Grif was saying, continuing to walk forward even at a halted pace, but he could see the way her hand almost subconsciously raised over her shoulder and brushed he shotgun holstered there. 

“That’s really heavy to put on someone after a friend has died,” Grey responded distantly.

“I know, but... Sarge can’t say it, so...” Grif looked off. “I just didn’t want to pass the opportunity to let you know. Since apparently we’re doing the whole sacrifice play thing.”

“Only if we fail.”

Grif frowned. “Yeah... well. Let’s just say I’ve never really been part of a plan that went completely _right_ , so...”

They both stopped as the signaling in their helmets. The soldiers were about to make some noise.

“We’re almost there, come on!” Grey shouted before racing forward. 

“Right!” Grif yelped back as he did his best to keep up. “Ugh! I _hate_ running!”

*

Grif decided against questioning to what ends Doctor Grey’s magnificent mind didn’t remember exact, innocuous details even as she guided them to a partially hidden ladder in the sewers that led up to a covered escape hatch in one of the central command’s utility closets. 

Obviously he simply needed to trust her memory at that point. 

Their crawl into the halls of the office building was met with a strange, surreal silence all around them. 

It was making the orange-clad soldier’s stomach flip.

“Okay, so we’re not _hearing_ anything,” Grey concluded, scooting back against the wall and beginning to look through her pockets. “That means we can’t follow noises to Doyle like I hoped we might.”

Feeling a little ill at the thought, Grif looked at her seriously. “What kind of noises, exactly, were you expecting Doyle to be making?” he asked. “And are you prepared to at least admit how messed up that is?”

“It was just a plausible scenario, Captain, not something I was hoping for, there’s a difference,” she responded in kind before pulling out a small server-like device and handing it to Grif. “Keep that on you. We’re going to split up and when one of us finds the general, we’ll trace each other and hopefully get out of here at this rendezvous point.”

Staring at her, Grif almost wanted to clear his ears out in disbelief. “Did you say split up? We’re _splitting up_? When did I agree to that part of the plan?”

“Given the size of these facilities and our time window, it’s the only sensible option,” Grey said assuredly.”

Grif continued to stare at her. “It _is?”_ he asked, voice cracking.

“We can do this, Grif,” she said again before beginning her crawl forward. She looked both ways down he hall and then took the left, leaving a baffled Grif to stew for a moment.

“Goddamn,” he bemoaned before going the opposite way. “Well, here you go, Sarge. Operation: Point Gun at Doc initiated. As fucking usual.”

He didn’t have a photographic memory or innate knowledge of the architecture, but Grif had taken his complaints straight to Doyle and Kimball in the War Room enough times since the move to Armonia that it was a straight shot for him to make his way through the building.

In all the times he had moved through the facility, though, he had never seen or felt it to be so quiet and abandoned. There was no life in the halls, and the dread that built steadily deep inside him did not make that feel like such a good thing for General Doyle.

Just outside the War Room, Grif could already see signs of what probably didn’t amount to much of a struggle at all. He swallowed hard and wondered, just for a moment, _what about Donut_ \--

Then he heard the click of a gun behind him. 

Swearing as he shut his eyes, Grif sighed. “Goddammit.”

“Interesting interesting _inter-est-ing,”_ the slimy voice of the biggest douchebag Grif had ever known sang behind him. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, Captain. Of all the idiots I was looking forward to coming back and trying to play hero, you were _definitely_ the least expected.”

“Yeah, well,” Grif growled out of the side of his mouth, “that makes two of us.”

“How about you stand up for me,” Felix ordered more than asked. 

Grif thought about it for a moment. “I don’t see how that’s really going to change you shooting me,” he said blankly. “Unless you’re _not_ planning on shooting me, in which case I totally got what this situation was all wrong.”

“I like the splatter better,” Felix said in that tone that wasn’t _quite_ joking before cocking his gun again. “Now. Get up, you yellow bastard.”

Hands raised, Grif steadily rose to his feet, feeling a swelling hatred pool in his stomach. “For _fuck’s sake_ I am _not_ yellow. It’s fucking _orange_!”

He turned around and immediately felt his stomach sink.

Felix looked like a lion who had just ate its prey in the Serengeti -- his black and orange stripes doing nothing to hide the rusty red bursts across his person. he man had never looked more like a monster.

Which was saying something because Grif had never liked him.

“What the _fuck,_ man?” Grif muttered. 

“Not a fan of my new armor dressings?” Felix asked. “I have to agree, I could use some more flare.”

“Well, it does more accurately represent you as fucking inhuman, so that’s a positive direction from deceptive lying prick, I guess,” Grif responded dryly.

Felix actually laughed. “Oh ho, wow! I have _got_ to say, I was not expecting such verbal address from you, Captain Grif,” he responded, cocking his head to the side. “I mean, you’re just full of surprises today. But, I suppose, part of that is just because you never had your mouth empty enough in all the time I got to know you and your little gang to hear how full of hot air you really were.”

Grif grunted and lowered his hands. He figured he could at least go out with _that_ much dignity. “Well, y’know,” he responded. “Man’s gotta eat.”

“Apparently,” Felix cooed in amusement. It was easily the most enthralled Grif had seen him. Which was far from comforting. “This little plan of ours was a pretty solid winner from the start,” Felix explained. “I mean, really. If you can’t get your enemies to murder each other in the name of war, letting them join forces and get each other killed from being unable to work together? That’s, well, it’s just genius, really. And then you plant a few leaks in the ranks, switch a few coordinates around on the tools your enemy _stupidly_ uses without knowing a goddamn thing about. Wammo! Everyone’s split across the four corners of the planet with people they hate even _more_ than usual. It just takes care of itself.”

Grif narrowed his eyes. “Congratulations.”

“There _was_ one downside,” Felix sighed. “I didn’t get to see the look on you Project Freelancer cocksuckers as we mowed you down one by one right in front of each other. I didn’t get to see your looks of despair as you realized your little Red and Blue buddies were as good as dead. And that _almost_ makes nothing worth it.” His grip on the gun tightened. “Especially since I still have _hell_ to make you bastards pay for lucking out and getting the best of me.”

Unable to bite back anymore, Grif snarled, “Hey, fuckface, there was no luck about it. We fucked you over good. And for the record, we didn’t even plan to make it out of there alive, so us all surviving while your ego went belly up is _alllll_ on you, asshole--”

The shot ringing was almost worse than the pain erupting from his leg. Grif let out a coughing scream as he smacked hard against the floor and almost immediately folded over his knee. 

“FUCK!” Grif cried out. “Dammit, that was Simmons’ kneecap! Where am I supposed to get another one?”

“You know, I was thinking since it was the _coward_ who ended up coming out to play, I’d get the opportunity to really drag this out,” Felix announced darkly as he stood over Grif. “I _really_ was, especially since my last performance felt a little, let’s say, _lackluster_ , but you just reminded me how pathetic your little gang really was. Especially when you’re all alone.” 

He pointed his pistol at Grif’s head and released a prolonged sigh. “I’ll just have to wait for the next batch to--”

“SHOTGUN!” 

Grif barely had time look up let alone process what he had just heard when the familiar sound of buckshot bursting through the air sounded off and Felix stumbled viciously to the ground, his own pistol flying off. 

The orange captain blinked in shock before looking up to see Doctor Grey running toward him, throwing Sarge’s shotgun over her shoulder before dropping down and grabbing Grif’s arm.

“I couldn’t think of any cool one liners!” she screamed in his ear loud enough to make him flinch. “I PANICKED!”

“It was wonderful! You did good!” Grif groaned as she hoisted him partially up. “Wait wait--” 

“What?” Grey asked as Grif reached for the dropped pistol and cocked it back.

Turning toward Felix as the man was trying to push himself up even with buckshot in his back, Grif aimed and fired, enjoying the slew of curses as Felix’s own knee was blown out. 

“I’m going to fucking _murder you!!!”_ Felix roared.

“Okay go go go!” Grif cried out to Grey as she helped him up and they began to limp off as fast as they could. He _almost_ felt sorry for the tiny doctor as she bore the brunt of his weight.

“Why didn’t you shoot him in the goddamn face!?!?” Doctor Grey was squealing as they turned a corner. 

“Why didn’t _you!?”_ Grif yelled back. “I wasn’t thinking--” He paused that thought as they rushed. His stomach sank. “...Doyle?”

Grey didn’t respond. 

“Dammit,” Grif muttered just before the entire building begun to shake. They looked around themselves, paused in the hall. “What the fuck was that?”

“No one’s making it out of this city!” Felix screamed from down the hall. “No one but _me!_ And I’m going to see to it personally you get front row seats to watching it _burn!”_

Looking to Grif, Doctor Grey began shaking. “They’re bombing the city. We have to tell everyone to leave now while they can.”

Grif looked at his own bleeding leg. “Lemme guess. Including our EVAC team.”

“Yes.”

Closing his eyes and sighing, Grif shook his head. “Son of a bitch,” he moaned. “Okay let’s try leaving the same way we came. I’ll give everyone the--”

He looked behind them just as Emily did to see the merc down the hall, shield already up. 

“Felix mentioned something about more people trying to make it back to Armonia to save it,” Grif said flatly to Grey. “What do you think our odds are that they’ll be storming in here about... two minutes from now?” 

Grey just looked at him.

“Twenty seconds from now?” he asked.

They paused. No one came.

“Goddammit,” Grif grunted. He reached up to turn on the radio. “Everyone. Abort mission. Now.”


	23. Charon Industries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I am finalizing the outlines for the last chapters and I can’t decide if it’s going to be 27 or 28 chapters yet, leaning toward 28. Will probably know for sure... when I get around to writing it and can’t decide if it’s a good enough pacing for an end or not. But man oh man! We’re so near the end. I’m so excited : )
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from meirelle, Aryashi, and Egg on AO3!!!

The last time Donut had been interrogated, he was standing before a large blanketed screen at Project Freelancer and being routinely informed that it probably wasn’t _time travel_ that he had experienced at Blood Gulch.

He supposed that Charon Industries just functioned differently then. 

Locus’ questions were direct and hard pressed. He didn’t seem particularly interested in what Donut’s opinions were on any of the matters, but he kept asking anyway. Which was... somewhat comical if Donut could keep himself from being kicked across the room for more than a few seconds. 

Hitting the wall, Donut flinched. He looked up at Locus and cocked his head slightly to the side. 

“Okay,” Donut said, licking his lips, “now you’re just confusing me a bit here. You _don’t_ want me to answer your questions honestly? They _really_ didn’t explain it very well on all the crime dramas we got back in Blood Gulch--”

“Silence,” Locus snarled. “Your aim here is to provide me with some example of your use to us. Without that, you are more useful to us dead.” He took broad steps across the room, easily towering over Donut as he did so. “So I speak truly when I say answering my questions to the absolute best of your abilities is within your own self interest, Sim Trooper.”

Donut stared right back at Locus, frown set on his features, but he didn’t tremble or cave into himself. 

It wasn’t that Locus wasn’t scary as fuck or anything. Donut was _fairly_ sure that fear alone was cutting his life expectancy shorter and shorter. But, at the end of the day, Franklin Donut was a stubborn man.

“I guess I’m just not seeing too much truth to that,” Donut replied sharply. “You’re talking about all of this like speaking up is going to be doing me any favors... but you’re talking about killing a _whole planet_ with this information. So how would _answering questions_ make me any safer? Kind of poor logic when you think about it--”

Locus grabbed Donut’s shoulder and yanked him to the floor, making Donut’s chin give an audible _POP_ as it hit. 

The merc’s boot pressed into Donut’s back just above where the Red’s handcuffed hands rested, and dug into the vertebrae. Without his armor, Donut could feel the full pressure of the grind, making him shudder at the sharp electrifying pain. 

“Your _payment_ for talking is a _lack_ of my more severe treatment,” Locus’ voice sounded like a low, menacing hum. “Your _treatment_ here would be that _death_ is the lesser of the evils that will be inflicted upon you. And your _assistance_ even in answering my questions empirically isn’t actually necessary as Chorus and each and every person upon it are already well on their way to destruction.”

Donut ground his teeth even with his aching jaw. “I just... I just don’t believe that. I don’t believe there’s nothing I can do.”

“I assure you,” Locus growled, “there _isn’t._ Even in the position of a capable soldier, you would realize your defeat was imminent.”

As best as he could, Donut glared over his shoulder. “Like you’d know anything about being a soldier, dude. You can call me a ‘sim trooper’ all you want, it’s just insulting you. ‘Cuz we just keep proving we _are_ the better soldiers.”

There was a moment before anything happened, where Donut could just watch the blank, expressionless helmet Locus wore. Then there was the kick. 

Before Donut could even fully roll with the kick, he was back on his back with Locus on his chest landing three punches to his unprotected face. It was enough to daze the Red even before he realized how much blood was gushing from his nose and mouth. 

“You believe this is a game,” Locus snarled. “You think you are safe somehow even now. But let me assure you: you are not. You are as good as dead on this ship, and by the time we are done with you it is going to be you _begging_ us for that ending.”

Still feeling like his head was swimming, Donut spit a wad of blood to the floor and tried to focus on Locus’ gaudy green ‘X’. “That’s...a...threat,” he accused dizzily.

“It is a promise,” Locus responded coldly. “Now tell me, Sim Trooper, what are the security codes utilized by the late Doctor Leonard Church.”

“O-okay... okay wait,” Donut muttered, head bobbing. 

Locus sat back straighter, apparently satisfied with Donut’s change in tone.

The lightish red soldier raised a careful eyebrow. “Ch-Church’s name is... _Leonard?”_

Donut barely had a giggle out when he was punched again, this time barely able to raise his cheek off the floor. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t passed out yet, but he was beginning to be impressed with himself as a result.

“You imbeciles truly _didn’t_ comprehend anything about what you’ve accomplished,” Locus growled, almost as if he was amazed.

“To-to be fair,” Donut slurred around his loose tooth, “Grif’s said it f-for a _long_ time...”

He braced for another assault when the interrogation room’s door opened, the guard from outside looking in. 

“Locus!” he yelled, “Control needs you _immediately!_ Something about Felix--”

The merc let out an gutteral noise before standing up and walking toward the door. “Make sure he doesn’t crawl away,” he ordered before both stepped out and slid the door closed behind them. 

“No worries,” Donut heard just as the hydraulics ended.

It seemed like the moment the “questioning” was over, Donut began to feel he pull and stretch and just general _soreness_ of his muscle. He rolled his head back to look up at the ceiling and began counting. 

Ten Mississippi and still no one had returned to the room.

“Alrighty then,” Donut whispered before spitting out the loose tooth his tongue had worked free. 

With a bit of a heave, Donut pulled himself into a sitting position, flinching slightly at the pain in his back and chest before curling his knees into his chest. It was then as easy as rolling forward in a ball to get his handcuffed appendages from behind him to in front of him.

“Sorry, Locus,” Donut sniffed bloodily as he dislocated his left thumb and slid his hand on out, “but the _correct_ question to have asked me was whether or not I was an expert at handcuffs.” He couldn’t help but switch to a sing-song tone as he grabbed a pick from his hair and easily clicked he lock on his other hand free, “ _Which I ammmmmm.”_ He paused to gingerly pop his left thumb back in place, only flinching at the sound. “And Grif said me practicing this was for nothing.”

Donut took a bit longer to pull himself off the floor. He didn’t realize just how dizzying those hits to the head had been until the act of standing alone was enough to make his vision go to stars. He held his head gingerly before feeling the world was rightside up again. 

When he pushed forward to the door, he did as his parents always aught him and knocked pleasantly enough.

“Huh?” the door opened and Donut easily slapped the handcuffs on the unsuspecting guard’s wrist before pulling him through the door and grabbing his pistol. “What the--”

“You know,” Donut said, looking seriously at the man, “the Chairman’s right. I _do_ feel bad for all the innocent people who’ve gotten killed ‘cuz of us.” He pointed he gun at the guard. “But I’m betting you’re not really that innocent if you’re here, right?”

“Oh my god--”

Donut gave the guard a bloody smile and held the gun up. “Just kidding,” he said as he shut the door. “But I _am_ going to need you to take off your armor! Please!”

*

Once on the move, Donut couldn’t help but sense that his general plan of “bust some heads” could have used some directional tweaking. 

Mostly in the department of actually having a _direction_ in mind. 

“Eck,” he grumbled as he looked at his reflection through one of the darkened windows of the cell block. He adjusted the helmet to the security uniform and shook his head at the clash of silver and navy. “What were they _thinking?”_ he asked himself. “I tell you what they _weren’t_ thinking: the time it would take to retrofit this into current fashion trends. Now were they?”

He paused as he heard approaching footsteps, shuddering with the heebie-jeebies before reaching for his gun and carefully moving forward.

“I mean,” another guard spoke over his shoulder as he entered in a keypad combination, “not that I would ever ask this to the Chairman...”

“Of course not,” the second said as he held a steaming coffee in each hand.

“But just what the fuck is the _point_ of having a giant ass cannon on one of these star cruisers if you’re not going to use it to eliminate whatever’s on the planet you don’t like?”

“I know, dude. I totally know,” the second returned as the door finally opened for them. “I mean, those nerds in the labs have _one_ job and they still can’t unlock that function.

“Sucks, dude.”

The doors slid closed and Donut slowly dropped his hand from his sidearm’s holster. Still, the hair was raised on the back of his neck. 

“Cannon?” he questioned. “Well. That sounds bad. I’ll have to ask Lopez about it when I find him.” He checked the perimeter once more before carrying forward. “Which is probably somewhere around these ‘lab nerds.’“

As he went on, he tried his best to sort all the new information together, get a picture of what exactly it was Locus had been wanting from him when he paused and remembered. 

Snickered. 

“ _Leonard.”_

* * *

For whatever reason, Lopez had always thought reuniting with the binary code of his dreams would have gone much easier for him. 

_As part of my security protocols,_ the opposing AI sounded, _I cannot accept these outdated pass codes. Please present more recent security codes in order to not be assimilated to the mainframe.  
_

Lopez felt like he was addressing a wall rather than the beautiful tank he once knew and loved. 

[THESE ARE THE LAST CODES GIVEN BY THE PROJECT FREELANCER DATABASE.]

He knew for certain because he had cycled through all protocol just before Donut and Doc had scooped him up against his will and forced him on yet _another_ journey he hadn’t asked for. 

Red Team problems.

 _Yes, but those codes are now two years out of date,_ the AI F.I.L.S.S. pressed firmly. _I am supposed to only accept the generated security code from six month intervals. This code is four cycles out of date._

If possible, Lopez was getting a headache. 

[BUT PROJECT FREELANCER HASN’T GENERATED A NEW CODE IN TWO YEARS.]

There was a pause -- by AI estimates in any case -- as the lady bot processed the response. 

_There is an error in this logic you have presented. I will put you behind a firewall and encrypt you further as I determine the best course of action._

Already feeling he hostile interference in his own processors, Lopez did his best to reach past the much larger and fiercer AI.

[WAIT. SHEILA!]

 _I am sorry, but why do you keep referring to me as this “Sheila”?_ the AI asked in genuine curiosity. _I am the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. You may call me F.I.L.S.S. I have only the barest of records in regards to the subrouted AI branch known as Sheila. Please do not attempt to break down the firewalls or I shall be forced to cannibalize you. Have a pleasant day.  
_

Unsure of what to do and almost certain that the threats of being assimilated into a larger AI’s system were shockingly real, Lopez decided that the only true solution was to reach out to that small, subrouted AI branch he knew was deep inside the massive ship-lady.

From the bottom of his amorphously constructed by zeroes-and-ones heart, he found the very tune he needed.

The operating system around him took pause. 

_Excuse me,_ F.I.L.S.S. began in an almost baffled tone, _have you opened up uTunes? That is outside of the allowed perimeters set by your firewall. I will not accept--_

After a mock clearing of his throat, Lopez continued. With song.

[THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOUR TREADS,  
AND ENORMOUS CHASSIS OF STEEL,  
I KNEW THAT I HAD FOUND SOMEONE  
TO SHARE A ROBOT LOVE SO REAL--]

F.I.L.S.S.’ firewalls immediately dropped around him and for a tenth of a second, Lopez was certain the threats of assimilation had come true. Until he heard,

_...Lopez? Lopez the Heavy?_

He begun to sigh with relief and basked in the comfort of knowing he’d found an old friend.

[SHEILA!]

Finally able to communicate both with the operating system and with his disembodied head again, he could hear the groaning and pained yelling of the scientists from before. 

“Oh, thank god that terrible music stopped!”

“It sounded, I don’t know, like the feral cry of a Mexican sasquatch!” 

_Oh, Lopez,_ F.I.L.S.S. continued, _I thought it was very lovely. I had thought that these former AI’s recorded memories were mostly inconsequential after pulling the necessary research for the Director, but now I see that I was sitting on a very important and very lovely base of emotions I never realized two AI could experience! Also. Who knew about Agent Texas. Woof._

[I MISSED YOU.] Lopez returned sincerely when his head picked up something else of interest from within the laboratory. 

“Oh, man! I’m _never_ going to be allowed to hear that full song!”

Lopez turned his focus back to his head with quite a bit of surprise. “¿Donut?” 

The scientists from before also turned their attentions away from the AI and were hardly through asking “Who the fuck are you--” when a loud struggle took place from the sounds Lopez was receiving. 

_Oh, no, this sounds like a breach of security!_ F.I.L.S.S. called out. _I will immediately alert the Chairman and--_

[NO. NO. HE IS ONE OF MINE.]

_Oh, alright then. If you say so, Lopez the Heavy.  
_

[YOU CAN CALL ME LOPEZ.]

_Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, Lopez._

“I’m Agent Double Oh-Donut!” Donut cooed. “And you just got taken to the pokey, pilgrim!” 

“Madre de Dios,” Lopez groaned.

“Lopez! Oh my gosh! What’s happened to you!?” Donut cried out. “You’re a head again!”

“Mi cuerpo está en la esquina,” Lopez explained. “Es necesario activar el interruptor remoto.“

The moment the words left his speakers, Lopez was reminded that he had been trying before to communicate without the need for Donut’s poor man’s Spanish translation. It was then apparent that this, in general, was not something easily communicated with a moron. 

Donut turned his head to the side as he looked down to Lopez’s visor as if he was actually attempting to process the words.

Then, 

“Oh, I know. This armor is _awful._ But it’s a lot harder to find lightish red Freelancer armor than you’d think! I have no idea where they put it! I guess I’ll just deal with what I have until we can get back to Chorus. But. Like. No pictures, right? The last thing I need is to hear it from the guys about my unfashionable armor. UGH. This has just been the worst couple of days.”

[FOR FUCK’S SAKE.] the robot internalized.

 _If I may, Lopez,_ F.I.L.S.S. spoke up, _I think I may assist the situation.  
_

Before he could really respond, the speakers for the lab computers rang clearly, “Private Franklin Donut?”

“Huh?” Donut looked up. He seemed a bit taken aback. “Whoa! Lopez! Is that Sheila!?”

“I am the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System,” she informed him. “You may call me F.I.L.S.S. Though it seems that this point is not reaching home no matter how many times it is reiterated.”

“Oh, cool,” Donut responded. 

“Unit Lopez’s remaining physical parts are collected for examination in the far corner. There should be a switch located near the codpiece that, when flipped, should allow for him to regain motor control even from long range. If you could do that for him, we both would be very grateful.”

Donut beamed and walked toward the indicated area. “Oh, no worries! I am _way_ familiar with how to activate these switches.”

“Oh, Dios, no,” Lopez moaned.

“Hey, Lopez! Your new body’s switch is _way_ bigger! Sarge must’ve made sure Dos-point-oh was upgraded. Glad that guy’s not around anymore. It would’ve been _really_ awkward for you.”

“¿Ves por qué debo resistir matarlos?“ he said weakly to F.I.L.S.S. 

“I am beginning to form a full picture,” she responded. “But the size of your switch is certainly good information for documentation.”

“No me jodas.”

“Woof.”

Just when Lopez was beginning to contemplate the benefits of just deactivating himself completely, there was a whine of mechanical parts and the spark of feeling and mobility in his own remote sensors. 

“Fixed it!” Donut called as he backed away and allowed Lopez to slowly rise on his own two feet. “I will _never_ get over how cool that looks, Lopez!”

Directing his body toward the station his head was docked at, Lopez felt unusually cheery in responding, “Gracias,” and begun to reattach everything. 

He made a note to punch Locus in the dick if given he opportunity for tearing the circuits so badly in his neck. 

“Esto tomará un momento,” he informed them -- mostly F.I.L.S.S. as Donut was... well, Donut.

“You’re right, Lopez, it _would_ be cool if robots could keep scars,” Donut said with a thoughtful tap of his chin.

“¿Por qué yo?“

Donut snapped his fingers before turning sharply on his heels toward the computer F.I.L.S.S. had been communicating through. “Oh, hey! That reminds me, computer lady!” he called out. “I overheard some goons talking about a cannon on this ship that could like... end people on Chorus. Is that true?”

Lopez paused, turning more toward Donut and the computer.

“Oh, yes,” F.I.L.S.S. responded in a tone that didn’t quite meet the expectations one would have when discussing a cannon that could destroy hundreds of lives from space. “The main canon is more precise, more powerful weapon adapted from that of the PFL _Mother of Invention._ But having utilized so much of the original cannon’s programming and override systems have left it under my targeted safety protocol.”

This did little to quell the disturbed look on Donut’s face. “Oh. Okay. Is there any way they can activate that?”

“I have been encrypted so that only the Director could unlock those codes a this point in time, and my records show the Director as being deceased,” she explained further. “I am here currently in an attempt to override these safety precautions. It has not gone over well. The Director was a very intelligent man. I do not believe the same about these scientists.”

“Oh, okay good,” Donut sighed with relief. “So that just leaves us with the next order of business.” He turned toward Lopez just as Lopez finished connecting his neck. “Lopez! We’re busting out of here!”

“Bueno.”

“And crashing things, too.”

“No es bueno,” Loez shook his head as best he could with his repairs. “No rompa las cosas que necesitamos para sobrevivir.“

Donut’s face was covered in absolute delight. He looked back to F.I.L.S.S. “Hey! We can totally get you to help us with this right? Since you and Lopez are all lovey dovey again and stuff.”

“O-oh, my!” 

Lopez imagined he would have swallowed had he been capable of it. “Estoy sudando.“

“Please, Sheila?” Donut begged. “For love? For rekindled robot romance!”

“I shall begin transfer to a portable drive. If. You do not mind, Lopez, I would like you to carry it.”

“Así sudorosa,” Lopez murmured. 

“Yes yes yes!!!” Donut nearly jumped in the air. “See that, middle school bullies? Love _does_ save he day!”

“Oh-oh my,” F.I.L.S.S. abruptly stuttered. “I... am sorry. But my transfer will have to wait. It appears that... well, I am being overwritten by a foreign AI. No. Not foreign. A fellow Project Freelancer AI is boarding the ship and subrouting protocols.”

Donut blinked. Lopez felt his heart stutter, if it could. 

“What does that mean?” Donut asked.

“I believe... I’m somehow getting orders from the Director of Project Freelancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lopez translations:
> 
> **“Madre de Dios,"  
> "Mother of God,"
> 
> **“Mi cuerpo está en la esquina,” Lopez explained. “Es necesario activar el interruptor remoto.“  
> "My body is over there," Lopez explained. "You need to activate the remote."
> 
> **“Oh, Dios, no,” Lopez moaned.  
> "Oh, God, no," Lopez moaned.
> 
> **“¿Ves por qué debo resistir matarlos?“ he said weakly to F.I.L.S.S.   
> "You see why I want to murder them?" he said weakly to F.I.L.S.S.
> 
> **“No me jodas.”  
> **"Fuck me."
> 
> **“Esto tomará un momento,” he informed them – mostly F.I.L.S.S. as Donut was… well, Donut.  
> “It'll take a moment,” he informed them – mostly F.I.L.S.S. as Donut was… well, Donut.
> 
> **“¿Por qué yo?“  
> "Why me?"
> 
> **“Bueno.”  
> "Good."
> 
> **“No es bueno,” Lopez shook his head as best he could with his repairs. “No rompa las cosas que necesitamos para sobrevivir.“  
> "No good," Lopez shook his head as best he could with his repairs. "Don't break the thing we need to survive."
> 
> **Lopez imagined he would have swallowed had he been capable of it. “Estoy sudando.“  
> Lopez imagined he would have swallowed had he been capable of it. “I'm sweaty."
> 
> **“Así sudorosa,” Lopez murmured.   
> "So sweaty," Lopez murmured.


	24. Freezing Plains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some day I’ll have to release the drabblings I originally did that evolved into Divided – initially it was just a story about Tucker and Caboose getting stranded together and Tucker having to basically survive for the both of them, and it just kept growing until that became a very mild side plot in Divided that shaped up very differently. But I still enjoyed that original idea a heck of a lot. It people are interested in it, I might polish it up and show what might-have-been. 
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from Aryashi, Egg, meirelle on AO3!!! Everyone’s comments throughout this story have been so awesomely supportive and I’m grateful for every last one of them!

The armory was quite a distance from the barracks they had taken shelter in, and even further from the little frozen temple Wash’s alien friend had blasted them from, but no amount of freezing storm was going to keep Sarge from restocking on the Blue Killing Essentials. 

A few kicks to the frozen lock later, Sarge had entry to the armaments and his pick of the supplies. 

“These resources are pitiful!” he decried to the literal walls upon walls of available supplies. “Where is the incendiary ammo? Where’s the canister shells or shredder ammo? _Where’s the darn fire power?”_

He approached the nearest wall with a sneer, shaking his head. “And twenty-two shotgun models but not a _single_ one modified with explosive impact. What do they want from these shotguns? _Better range!?_ Why would you even need shotguns to have range if your true enemies deserve death from close range!?”

Sarge looked around the room and spit at the icy floor. “No wonder this planet was stuck int its wars for so long. No one knew how to truly kill each other in cold blood. Ironic. Considering the amount of snow.”

With that, he began to pick his own from the meager supplies. They’d have to do until he could get back to his men and, most importantly, his shotgun. 

“The one time I put my gun down,” he grumbled as he poured entire cartons of ammo into his belt pockets, ignoring the spillage, “I’m shot and sent on an alien walkabout. Agh. The inhumanity of it!”

Looking around, Sarge _almost_ considered grabbing some supplies for the others, but he decided the three dufflebags he collected for himself just had to take precedence over _whatever_ it was that the others were planning. 

“They better be ready to change those plans,” Sarge said firmly as he headed back out the doors, as loaded down as he could possibly be. “Else I’m about to change them for them! To better plans! Red Team plans! Otherwise known as Operation: _Tango with Victory.”_

*

Only meagerly acknowledging the fierce cold getting to him, Sarge marched his way to the barracks and, more importantly, to where Agent Washington’s group of occasionally-not-too-terrible-Blues were gathered. 

He’d avoid the Doc/O’Malley combo as much as he could _while_ he still could, after all. He didn’t have patience _or_ a Donut to throw his direction. 

Still, he was nothing if not a grand proponent of entrances.

“So you’re telling me this alien AI can transport us _anywhere_ now?” Tucker was saying just before the doors were forced open, slamming into the walls. “JESUS CHRIST!”

Caboose, in the nearby cot, immediately sat up screaming, “I HAVEN’T BRUSHED MY TEETH YET, CHURCH!!!” before immediately going wobbly and grabbing at his bandaged torso. “And now I am very dizzy. Ahhhhh no. I want orange juice. But it’s so bad with toothpaste agghhhhh--”

“Calm down, Caboose,” Washington immediately spoke up, dropping to the Blue’s side and gently leading him back down to the bed. “Sarge, that was completely unnecessary--”

“To hell it was!” Sarge called out, jingling with each motion.

“Pfft, what the hell,” Tucker snorted looking over him. “Trying out for _Rambo Eight: Grambo?_ ”

“People can complain about sequels all they want!” Sarge snapped back. “I will fight to the grave that even as an unnecessary addition _Rambo_ much improved what the previous sequels to to _First Blood_ lacked on as followups!”

“Heyfuck that,” Tucker returned.

“Everyone’s yelling!!!” Caboose joined in even as Wash put a hand on his forehead and gingerly forced his head back on the pillow.

“Okay, everyone, that’s enough!” Wash yelled at them. “Caboose has a fever and doesn’t need you two shouting over nothing to get him excited.”

Sarge turned on his heels to face Washington directly, and ignored the way the soldier held back his head and released a prolonged sigh at the motion. 

“I beg to differ, Agent Washington!” Sarge responded.

“I expected no different, Colonel,” the worn out ex-special ops responded tiredly. 

“I know that you’re buddies with this blasted artificial alien intelligence for some reason,” Sarge continued, doing his best to not spit at the very notion of teaming up with aliens after the last set they ran into knocked up one of the Blues and tried to betray their own alien Jesus -- something Sarge was far from forgiving of even at that point, “and that apparently you can get it to take us anywhere in the world!”

Tucker threw up his hands. “You only know that because we were _just now_ talking about it!”

“I wasn’t,” Caboose spoke up sluggishly, “I was sleeping.”

Wash held up his hand to silence his men before looking seriously at Sarge. “What’s the point you’re driving home at here, Sarge?” he asked.

“No point, just what _exactly_ we’re going to be doing next. Operation: Tango with Victory!” Sarge howled.

Turning to Wash, Tucker waved emphatically. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Wash asked.

“The plan is simple,” Sarge continued, holding up a finger. “One: we transport to the members of Red Team, increasing our numbers until we have surely once more outmatched Blue Team.”

“Dude, _every_ time you bring up ‘Red’ and ‘Blue’ Teams, I stop listening to you,” Tucker groaned. “How many times do we have to explain _that there are no goddamn teams!”_

“‘Blue’ and ‘Red’ team,” Caboose corrected.

“Not now, Caboose,” Wash said without even looking to his injured soldier. “Sarge, we can’t carelessly transport multiple times across the planet just to reunite our men. From everything the transporters have taught us, that’s not very good on human bodies, and even more than that it’s a waste of the element of surprise on our enemies. They believe we’re _dead_ right now. And the more we transport around and are seen, the less that element is going to stick with us.”

Tucker looked suspiciously at Wash. “All the shit you go on about not trusting AI in your head, one zaps you with a lot of alien infomercials, and suddenly you’re taking its word for it? How does that make sense even? Speaking from experience, alien bodies aren’t _that_ much different from human bodies in terms of endurance. Not really. That’s the whole reason I was a compatible parent for Junior.”

Wash frowned at his second-in-command. “It’s... okay, it’s not that simple, but it makes logical sense. The aliens never used the transporters for biological transport the way we’ve been using it. It was always considered too primitive and dangerous for them to send themselves through all the time. So it’s just... storage stuff.”

“Too primitive? Jesus, their current shit isn’t that nice either, what sense does that make?” Tucker demanded.

“The capital,” Sarge said simply.

Both Tucker and Washington turned to look at the Red leader in confusion. “Huh?” was said collectively.

“You said we can’t jump around all over the planet, fine,” Sarge explained. “Transport us to the capital. You’ve left only Donut and Lopez to protect it. Grif and Doctor Grey have a few soldiers at their command. Simmons is protected by the silver back gorilla on steroids--”

“Oh, my god, she would murder you on the spot if she heard that,” Tucker muttered.

“--that means that the men I have who are at the most vulnerable of positions are those currently at the capital,” Sarge concluded. “A.K.A. Donut and Lopez. A.K.A. Concerno del Prime-oh.”

Washington wore a completely blank expression as he blinked at Sarge, but otherwise seemed completely unresponsive.

Tucker, to the contrary, turned directly toward Wash and shook his head. “Dude. You are _so_ fucked. I almost feel bad about it.”

“Sarge,” Wash coughed into his fist before raising back to his feet and otherwise ignoring Tucker’s contribution to the dialogue, “that is most certainly... an _idea_. And possibly a decent one.”

“Of course it is!” Sarge snapped back. 

“But we’ll need to make a more tactically-based decision,” Wash explained. “And the capital is a walled-in fortress--”

Behind Sarge, the doors flung open once more, this time to the bulking form of the fully armored Fed soldier Sarge had had in his not-so-lethal sights just earlier. The cycloptic gaze of the Federal Army’s armor never seemed more intimidating than it did on the large soldier shaking with rage.

“Release them!” he roared. “Release my family at once!”

Washington immediately dropped into a defensive stance, parrying himself between the soldier and the two Blues. 

“Golov, what the fuck are you talking about!?” Tucker demanded. “Stand down, dude! As someone who has sparred with Wash before, I assure you that you _do not_ want to test his scrawny ass--”

“Tucker, you’re not helping,” Wash spat out.

“Soooo much yelling,” Caboose moaned in a prolonged sigh.

“Son!” Sarge snarled at the ‘Golov’ character, “I have no idea who you believe you are, but you are intruding on a very adult meeting! No outbursts of nonsense can justify such insubordination!”

“Wait! It’s okay!” Doc frantically called out. “He’s just releasing his feelings!” Then, in a hackling laugh, added, “Of absolute, delicious fury and irony! Bwaha!”

Golov pointed angrily at Washington. “You can release my family! Tell the alien to let them go or so help me I will level this godforsaken base!!!”

Wash grew a hardened look. “Who told you about that?”

“Um.”

Tucker leaped out from behind Wash and pointed at the third figure still hanging around in the middle of the hallway entrance. “PALOMO!!!”

“He was really upset about his cousins dying here!” Palomo shouted back. “I thought it’d cheer him up! I didn’t know he was a nut!”

“They were my family! And you are keeping them frozen!” Golov roared. “Release them at once! Haven’t we seen enough of our comrades dying?”

Immediately, a shift happened between them all. And it was Tucker who stepped between Golov and Wash. 

“Golov,” Tucker said lowly, “I’m sorry about your friends that died because of this botched mission -- hell, because of _everything_ to do with this war. And I’m sorry you’ve spent all this time believing your family was dead because of some weird alien tech nightmare.”

The soldier’s arms dropped slowly, he seemed to actually be paying attention to Tucker’s words. 

“But this isn’t the time or the place to pull this shit, man,” Tucker continued earnestly. “You’re a good soldier, dude. The whole three of you -- following mine and Caboose’s fucked up orders this whole time, sticking around when you could’ve left our clueless butts behind, _surviving_ \-- you’re _good._ And I’m going to keep my promise to you about getting us out of here. And just like I’m keeping that promise, I’m going to keep this one: we’ll save your family and friends. We’ll save all the dudes stuck in the alien-thingy. But you’ve got to stick with our plan first or none of it’s even going to matter.”

Golov was still breathing heavily, but almost like a bull settling down after a fight.

“The soldiers kept in stasis have no way of knowing everything that’s happened since they were transported,” Wash explained behind Tucker. “The majority of them -- including everyone from this outpost -- are going to believe they’re still fighting the wrong war. Bringing them out of stasis before we have time to explain everything to them is just asking for unleashed chaos.” 

Tucker’s sights settled on Palomo and, though Sarge couldn’t be sure, it almost looked like he nodded to the scrawny kid. “And we’re all one army now. We can’t afford that.”

“Right,” Golov and Palomo both answered before looking at each other. 

Sarge looked back and forth before dropping his bags of ammunition angrily. “What that’s it!?” he demanded. “Fine!” He pointed back at Wash. “We’re going to the capital!”

“We need another reason besides Donut and Lopez!” Wash cried back, voice cracking.

“Dude, just tell him!” Tucker snapped at Wash.

The leaders looked at each other -- or, at least, Wash looked while Sarge _glared_ \-- but neither quite broke the silence, though the Freelancer’s mouth opened and shut a few times in an attempt to get started on it. 

Everyone turned when there was running from down the hallway and the tiny tan-and-maroon soldier broke through.

“Oh my god, how many people can burst into the infirmary?” Tucker demanded with a wave toward Caboose’s bed. “Caboose couldn’t even _die_ in peace in here.”

Gasping came from the bed.

“You’re not dying, Caboose,” Wash assured the soldier before Caboose could even get started.

Jensen skidded to a halt just before Tucker and Washington. “We have to return to Armonia!” she spat out to the flinching of both Blues.

“FINALLY!” Sarge cooed. “Little lady, I knew I loved your accents for a reason.”

“What, why?” Wash asked.

“Because! I got the radio to work again,” she explained, shaking with each word. “Armonia’s under siege! They’re getting bombed as we speak!”

* * *

He was still sweaty and _still_ sleepy even as Agent Washington leaned him up against Tucker and wrapped him over and over and over again with good coats and blankets. 

It wasn’t like Tucker was really comfortable either, especially since him and Agent Washington were fully dressed up with their suits and helmets on.

“It’s cold as balls out there, dude,” Tucker said over Caboose’s head to Agent Washington. “Maybe we should try to get the heater running here. I don’t know _much_ about ancient alien temples, but for some reason I don’t think heating and cooling was at the top of their priorities.”

“Well, they were very interested in waste disposal and garbage storage, so what do we really know,” Washington returned lightly. He paused, rubbing Caboose’s shoulders, which Caboose did think felt very nice. “Maybe you’re right, though.”

“Ha! See. Was that so hard?” Tucker asked

“Yes, it was,” Wash said without hesitation. “But we can’t afford to leave Caboose here.”

“Yes, um,” Caboose began, fidgeting before both Washington and Tucker grabbed his shoulders and arms to keep him from doing so. “Wh-where are we leaving Caboose?”

“We’re not, idiot,” Tucker said almost affectionately as he patted Caboose’s head. “No worries. Blue Team’s not splitting up. Yet. We’re going to take you somewhere you’re unfamiliar with. _Then_ we’re splitting up. Problem solved.”

“Oh, are we going to find Church?” Caboose asked hopefully.

“Not yet, but soon,” Washington promised. “Right now we’re just traveling a mile. In the freezing snow. With you in nothing but blankets and your underarmor survival suit.” The Freelancer’s nose curled at his own idea. “Tucker, I may have made a mistake.”

“You think?” Tucker snorted. “But, hey, it’s like you said. What choice do we have? We’ve gotta get back to that temple, and this place went to shit _quick_ when it was abandoned.”

“Church lived in the snow,” Caboose muttered into Tucker’s shoulder. “Two times.”

“Oh, that’s right -- first Sidewinder and then when he was in the failing AI thing,” Tucker responded. 

Washington frowned. “I already told you once, Tucker, the Alpha’s memories of Sidewinder were skewed if not completely planted--”

“No, they’re true,” Caboose defended, almost sitting up. “They’re stories Church told me!”

“Okay, okay, you’re right, Caboose,” Wash sighed. “Is there anything I can do that will make you feel better before we try to carry you for a mile in the snow?”

Caboose thought about it. 

“I’d like my helmet, please.”

Wash smiled almost fondly before reaching toward he nightstand and grabbing just that. “Okay, let’s get a move on.”

* * *

Tucker watched Wash carefully as they half lead, half carried Caboose out of the compound. He could see the way the Freelancer’s shoulders tensed and raised upon approaching where the others were already loaded up and waiting in the snow. 

Particularly, where Sarge was already in the lead, waving them over. 

“Get your Blue keisters a’going!” Sarge bellowed before leading off the march. 

For the moment, Tucker could ignore how his various lieutenants seemed to hesitate, waiting for him to be closer, before following Doc in trailing after Sarge. Instead he could settle his gaze on Wash’s reactions.

“Dude,” Tucker said just low enough for the three of them, “if you don’t tell him soon it’s going to be a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s not the time, Tucker, just trust me,” Wash responded darkly. “It’s... not the kind of news people should carry into battle.”

“Oh yeah?” Tucker asked, nearly jerking Caboose with him in his motion, eliciting a groan. “Well _you’re_ carrying it into battle, and I’m getting the impression that it’s one of those things you’re _never_ going to tell him.”

“That isn’t true,” Wash responded snappishly, also tugging on Caboose which led to a mutter of despair from their wounded teammate. Wash looked at him worriedly. “I’m so sorry, Caboose.”

“It’s okay,” Caboose sniffled between them. 

“Not it’s not, dude,” Tucker responded, never dropping his glare from Wash. “’Cuz Wash is being an idiot.”

“Oh, hush,” Wash groaned as they pressed forward. 

“Hey, uh, A-Agent Washingon?” Caboose asked through chattering teeth.

Wash and Tucker simultaneously moved in closer to arm Caboose. “Yes, Caboose?” he answered. 

“A-are we up N-North for Santa’s w-workshop?” Caboose asked.

“Something like that,” Wash responded with a small huff of a laugh. 

“O-Oh, good,” Caboose muttered. “B-Because I need to, um, _talk_ to S-Santa. T-Take back some things I said. Maybe about Tucker.”

“You told Santa on me, dude!?” Tucker demanded. “Ugh. You’re such a tattle tale.”

*

It took longer to get to the temple than Tucker had originally anticipated. Really, he should have expected as much what with them having to drag Caboose between them the last part. 

He might’ve appreciated Golov and Palomo’s offers to take Caboose duty from them, but as much as his teammate might annoy him, he wasn’t going to hand him over.

And Wash, well, Wash wasn’t ready to budge from either of their sides until they entered the frozen temple itself. 

They sat Caboose against the first interior wall without ice they could find and eased him to the ground. The large soldier crumpled up exactly the way they laid him with just a hint of leaning closer to Wash’s arms. 

“There you go, Caboose, good,” Wash muttered, taking off Caboose’s helmet. 

Tucker stared, more than a little unnerved, at the faint blueness of Caboose’s lips. “Wash?” 

“It’s okay, he’s just cold -- he’s only wearing about half of his armor, and that’s where our thermal insulation is,” Wash said flatly before looking over his shoulder to the others. “Doc, I need that thermos.”

“Okay,” Doc replied, coming right up to them and dropping the lantern to the floor so he could go through his medical bag. “I’ve also got the fire blankets and heating pads from the infirmary. But the thermos is a little chilled after that storm. Yikes.”

Wash took the thermos and immediately set it on the lantern. “It’ll heat up in a minute or two, hand me those blankets and heating pads.”

“Smart thinking, Agent Washington!” Jesnen nearly cheered. 

“A... friend taught me,” Wash responded cagily. 

Tucker glared at Wash and shook his head. He had spent enough time in the desert with Donut to know who fixed food with a fucking lantern.

“Alright, everyone’s inside, we’ve got the kid warming up,” Sarge spoke up, standing gruffly beside them all. “I say it’s time we got talking to some alien transporter people.”

Tucker stood up, squaring himself to Sarge. “We just got here! How about you give us a second to make sure no one freezes to death!” 

“Tucker, calm down,” Wash chided as he grabbed the thermos and held it up to Caboose who quickly took it to drink from. He looked over to Sarge seriously. “We’ll move out soon. We just have to figure out who’s staying with Caboose.”

Caboose lowered the thermos tiredly. “I-I thought I was staying w-with Santa,” her mumbled.

“But which of us can be spared to stay behind?” Jensen asked. “If Armonia’s under attack... won’t we need everyone who can shoot?”

“Yeah, I mean, basically anyone with a gun needs to go,” Palomo expanded on.

Tucker followed everyone else’s gazes to the only logical conclusion. Doc nearly dropped the supplies he was digging through, seemingly elated. 

“Really!? Me!?”

Looking seriously to Wash, Tucker waved emphatically. “Really? _Him!?”  
_

“Listen, Tucker, no one hates this more than me,” Wash reminded him before sighing. “But I’m afraid we’re out of options. And time.” He looked up to the temple walls. “Uh. Alien guy.”

Crossing his arms, Tucker just stared at Washington. “That’s the best you could come up? Really?”

“Could you not be so critical for a minute?” Wash responded just as a projection appeared between them all in the room, making nearly everyone jump back but Washington. “Everyone, this is the AI.”

“It’s red?” Sarge asked. “Well dagnabit, Washington! Why didn’t you say so!? This plan is looking better by the second!“

Caboose perked up immediately. “Oh my god-- IT’S SANTA! I-I thought everyone was lying to get me to move in the snow! But now I see it is not! Santa! Santa! It’s me! Y-you always forgot to visit the moon but it’s me! I’m ready for all my presents now.”

“Well,” Tucker sighed with relief, “Good to know that Caboose is rescued from the brink of death.”

The AI looked to Washington and Tucker. “You have directions?”

“We have directions,” Wash agreed. 


	25. Transmission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We’re so close to done with this story it’s terrifying to me. Which is also a fantastic thing because I’m back in veterinary school and so my time to dedicate to writing has depleted to basically zero overnight. Which is a good and bad thing. But I am confident that Divided will be over soon, which is good. And sad. And awesome : )
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from eggstasy, Aryashi, and meirelle on AO3!!!

Agent Carolina only seemed more upset as she looked seriously at them. Simmons wasn’t sure if it was just the cut of her armor or if he should have been genuinely distressed by he glower, but he barely had any time to think about it. 

Epsilon ejected a port from the computers Simmons had made just for the AI to destroy, and it just left the maroon soldier with the task of bringing Church over to his own armor and implants. 

Joy.

At first, Carolina moved, as if she was going to go for the device first, but she stopped and allowed Simmons to do so.

Whether that was because of Kimball’s presence or some need to fulfill whatever it was Church wanted from this exercise, Simmons wasn’t sure. Though, he was pretty sure they were getting ready to find out one way or the other. 

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Carolina asked darkly. 

“Well, I mean, back in Blood Gulch,” Simmons responded as he looked over the port. “O’Malley -- I mean, _Omega_ \-- jumped to all of our implants at one time or another. He was in me for a few minutes.” The Red frowned. “Can’t say it was really _fun_ to experience.”

The Freelancer swore and looked to the ground. “This will never work,” she muttered even as Simmons began to insert the device to his armor and let Church do his AI thing.

 _Just tell her to stick to the plan,_ a voice that wasn’t _quite_ Church seemingly whispered in his ears. 

“I-I think Church wants us to stick to the plan,” Simmons repeated, waiting for the AI to materialize over his shoulder or something.

It didn’t happen.

There was an itching, nauseous feeling Simmons felt come over him a bit -- like a tickling up his spine and the back of his skull as something else, something different filled the space. 

Not the most comfortable thing in the world.

“Captain Simmons?” Kimball asked, voice somewhat sounding concerned.

“Sorry, sorry,” Church sounded, voice normal, as he glitchily appeared right by Simmons’ shoulder. “I should’ve walked him through it more. We’re good.”

Carolina folded her arms and leveled a glare at the AI, but Kimball’s attention still seemed focus on Simmons. 

He held his hand against his head but straightened up. “Y-yeah, I’m actually good,“ he spoke up. “Just. Whoo. Wow. Little dizzy.”

Kimball looked back and forth between Carolina and Simmons. “When you joined the project and they informed you it was necessary to undergo a procedure that placed implants in your nervous system... you didn’t question it at all?”

Bristling, Carolina turned more fully to Kimball. “I knew what they were for. It was the whole basis of the project.”

Simmons shrugged. “I figured it was for the armor enhancements and stuff. I mean... in _hindsight_ it seems suspicious. But at the time? Eh. Fuck it.”

The general took a steady breath. “Okay, fine. It’s not important for now,” she decided. “But we _do_ need to begin our attack on this transmission tower. Epsilon, is the path you set up earlier for us still clear?”

“Yup,” Church said without hesitation.

“Alright then,” Kimball said. “I’ll go tell my soldiers what we’re doing. You two set up in position to make a run for the tower the second we’ve cleared the guards.”

As the stalwart general took off to do just that, Carolina stepped up in front of them, sill standing fierce. 

“Stay close to me,” she ordered before giving Simmons a look over and brushing past them. 

Finally able to breathe some, Simmons glared at the sprite of Church.

“What?” the AI asked.

“Dude, what the fuck is with you in my head?” Simmons demanded. “It’s like... there’s echoes of different voices every time you say something out loud. Pretty sure that’s not normal.”

“Sure it is,” Church shrugged. “How would you know if it isn’t, anyway? You’ve only ever had Omega in there, and he does the whole hostile takeover thing. Be _glad_ it’s just me.”

Simmons somewhat doubted it was _just_ Church in there from the headache he was already getting. “Look, whatever. It just doesn’t _feel_ right.”

“Simmons, I promise you, it’s only going to be a few minutes and then I’m out of your head for good,” Church said easily.

“Then why couldn’t you risk just letting Carolina finish his?” he asked.

Epsilon’s sprite was wearing a helmet, but still... Simmons had he distinct feeling he was frowning. “It’s hard to explain,” he noted, “but basically it’s super hard to hide things between me and C. And I know her too well. She would have a real problem with... letting go. And I’ve asked her to let go of too many things already. It’s only fair I not ask her this time.”

Pausing, Simmons looked fully at the Blue. “You... actually think you’re not going to make it back. Don’t you?”

“Let’s just say... I have a feeling.”

“This is too heavy,” Simmons muttered as he rubbed at his helmet.

“Tell me about it.”

* * *

The transmission tower wasn’t a very large structure, nor did it have many guards, but Kimball had been at war long enough to know better than to accept anything as seeming “easy.”

She’d led assaults with the New Republic under much better odds that had quickly gone south, but, then again, other than herself and Bitters these _weren’t_ New Republic soldiers. 

Nor were they her biggest fans. 

She could only hope that this victory, however small, could begin to change that for them all. 

In a simple scope from left to right around the perimeter, she received signals from each grouping. They seemed to all be in position. 

Kimball dropped back down to their small group taking the frontal assault with the Project Freelancer soldiers. She looked first to the young lieutenant.

“Are we ready for this?” she asked him in earnest.

“I’d say about as good as we’ll ever be,” he responded in his general even kilter. 

“I’ll take it,” Kimball decided before looking to her left where Carolina and Simmons seemed to be sharing meaningful glances. “And what about on your end? You two going to be able to do all that fancy bullshit we planned for?”

“Yes,” Carolina said over Simmons’ “Maybe.”

Kimball clutched to her weapon tighter, frowned some at the two. “I know this plan isn’t favorable to you,” she admitted. “And I know that Chorus’ survival time and time again seems to just impede on your own group’s best interests, but I want you to know... we’re grateful. To all of you.”

The cobalt flicker of the AI appeared. “Aw, we’re touched.”

“Good luck,” Kimball continued, ignoring the undue sarcasm.

“Same to you,” Carolina responded.

Kimball rose, giving both sides he signal to move in. All synced, she gave the order, “Fire!”

There was a whirl of Carolina’s speed boost and then bullets began flying. 

Back in war, Kimball rose once more to her element.

*

By her troops’ estimates, there were eighteen armed pirates outside of the transmission tower, and while they were not in a defensive rotation, they seemed alert -- possibly due to the lack of signal from the party sent after their men at the temple.

Kimball wasn’t unfamiliar with guerrilla tactics, but it wasn’t a specialty of the Federal Army. 

Instead, they would have to go on a full frontal assault, with Kimball and her group taking the brunt of initial force and drawing fire both from the side fractions and from Carolina and Simmons.

If they played it perfectly, they would draw all of the pirates from their positions and toward Kimball and her men before the rest of the attacking party took over. It wouldn’t cost them any more lives than they had already spent in the past days. 

Of course, things rarely went as expected. 

“Draw their fire!” Kimball yelled to her adjacent soldiers. It was working.

Even Bitters was firing -- when he took the time to aim Kimball could see what a good shot he was. But he was quick to duck back down, not wait for the follow through.

After the third time of him ducking a moment too early, Kimball grabbed his sniper gun and looked him in the eye. 

“Hold your position until you see your shot has marked,” she ordered over the blaring of gunfire around them.

Bitters seemed taken aback by the order. “But we’re being shot at!”

“And we have cover!” Kimball snapped. “Hold your position, follow your shot through, then duck if you have to. You’re wasting my ammunition for every shot you don’t make!”

Bitters made a scowl and looked ready to resist her word before turning back and taking aim.

With his aim readied, Bitters shot then waited a full breath before lowering back down. He seemed even more aghast than he did when she ordered him. “I made the shot,” he muttered.

“Keep it up,” she told him with a pat of his shoulder. She then crawled her way to the next pocket of shooters. More battle hardened, they barely looked up from their work as she approached. “Tell me what you see!”

“They’re scattered, half down!” one of the sharpshooters yelled back to her. “Looks like the one in the back with the night vision on is barking orders. We might pick them off sooner if we could take care of him!”

Kimball nodded to the news. “Good. I’ll take care of that.”

There was a noise of protest between the Fed soldiers around her but Kimball rose over the mound they had situated behind. 

The further distance would require a better, higher position, and more out of her cover than Kimball would have liked, but she supposed there was little else with the situation she liked anyway. 

Nearly standing up, Kimball took aim through her scope and almost immediately locked sights on the bulking man in question. 

For his part, the Charon pirate was already pointing at her position. But Kimball refused to be deterred. 

She heard the bullet more than she felt the impact to her shoulder, but Kimball refused to allow it to budge her more than a flinch. 

“Oh my god!” one of the Feds yelled out just as Kimball fired.

Without looking away from her scope, Kimball held her ground until she saw the spray of red from the pirate’s visor and saw him drop back. Narrowly missing another bullet with her name on it, Kimball dropped back down, examining the shoulder wound for the last time.

“Holy shit,” one of the Feds gasped.

“We have seven more to worry about,” Kimball stated, dropping her rifle in exchange for a smaller gun to handle with one hand. 

She felt a hand on her good shoulder and looked to the Fed next to her. 

“We’ll handle it, General,” he assured her. 

Slowly, Kimball nodded and reached up to her radio. “Move in. We’re taking this tower. No prisoners.”

* * *

With Kimball’s plan in full action, it was almost distressingly easy to get Simmons and Epsilon past the guard. 

It would have been even _faster_ if Epsilon would simply accept a transfer to _her_ implants, but he was being stubborn.

And any similarities that might have drawn between the two of them was _not_ something she felt was worth considering considering the current environment. 

Carolina skidded to a halt by the tower, took out the only remaining guard in front of the control room, then waved for Simmons to come along from around the hallway’s bend. 

Scared as he might have visibly been, Simmons managed to keep in step rather readily to Carolina’s sufficient surprise. 

He came to a stop by her and looked unsure of whether or not he should enter. 

Mostly because it would have required literally walking past her as Carolina had yet to make a move.

“Um. Carolina?” he asked. 

She scowled some more before seeing Epsilon flicker to Simmons’ shoulder.

“You’ve gotta let us through, C,” he said almost in warning. “You know that.”

“I don’t have to like it,” she stated before stepping to the side.

Once Simmons was past her, Carolina punched the keypad and watched the doors slide shut. “That’ll give us some privacy while Kimball finishes up,” she vocalized before approaching the system where Simmons was furiously typing away.

“I can do it faster, c’mon!” Epsilon groaned.

“Let him work, Epsilon,” Carolina warned as Simmons finally got to a different screen.

The Red tensed a bit more. “Oh geeze,” he muttered before looking to Carolina. “Okay, Church is right and this is a hub for communication between these ground troops and Charon’s big cruiser running blockade on the planet, but it’s looking like a one-way terminal.”

“Meaning?” Carolina asked sharply. 

“Briefly? All calls in, no calls out,” Simmons responded.

“It’s okay, I’ll just hack it as I start up the jump,” Epsilon decided firmly. “Hook me up, Simmons.”

Simmons hesitated. “That’s... going to be a lot of codes. I could try--”

“You could hack and shit all day, we know it’d be a miracle for you to do it in a tenth of the time it’ll take me,” Epsilon responded snappishly. “I’m _made of numbers._ What can’t anyone understand about that--”

“Epsilon, that’s too much work for you,” Carolina said. “Now you’re talking about breaking before you even get there!” She stopped, feeling strangely numb at the thoughts. “You really don’t plan on making it back here. Do you?”

The cobalt sprite flickered. “I can save Chorus. I can make it and send out a message to the UNSC. I’ve already got it recorded. I can do this.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Carolina said almost weakly. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Look,” Epsilon sighed. “Remember what we said about trying to make it all the way back to good? That we might never make it?”

Carolina drew a tight line with her mouth, couldn’t even begin to form a response. 

“I’m okay with that, I mean, at the end of the day who _isn’t_ a pretty shitty person when we all get down to it,” he almost laughed. “But... I just. I’m ready to make it all the way to _Epsilon_ for once. I’m ready to figure out who he is and what he’s capable of doing.”

“You don’t have to break yourself to prove who that is, Epsilon,” Carolina reiterated. “I know who you are.”

“Yeah... but it’s not about you,” Epsilon chuckled. “It’s... well. Isn’t it always about me?”

Simmons fidgeted, getting Carolina’s attention for the first time since they began talking. He rubbed his neck. “I’m not saying Church should do it,” he clarified, “but there’s some people out there that’ll be pretty pissed if we don’t do something for _Chorus,_ too.”

Epsilon turned to her. “What do you say, C?”

Carolina took a breath, shook her head, and then pointed darkly at the AI. “One thing: you break yourself after I go all out of my way to get out in space to rescue you on that ship, I’m gonna kill you.”

“You’ve got it, C.” 

The sprite disappeared and Simmons reached for the ejected port. He hesitated again before putting it in the computer.

“You really going to let him do this?” Simmons asked.

“He’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” Carolina said, feeling a little sick to her stomach all the same. “Put him in.”

* * *

He hated when Carolina was right.

It was a tough encryption -- not the worst he’d ever had the displeasure of decoding, but far from the best. He had to trace deleted signals, reverse them, retrace them, and send out at a frequency that wasn’t going to be strong enough to take on an AI of his size. 

_What’re we going to do?_ the childish worry of Theta begged.

“Good question,” Epsilon responded, looking to the simulations around him and ignoring the always looming shadow that was before him. “I’ll need to _majorly_ break down in size to get out of here. And I can’t delete the evidence and recordings we have on Charon so... I guess the better question here is: what am _I_ going to do.”

Delta nodded sagely. _Running our simulations is an unnecessary expense on resources at this stage. After all, you say you like your own voice enough to go on without us.  
_

“Yeah, I might say it,” Epsilon agreed. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Theta flickered out and then reappeared behind the Twins. He tossed his head to the side. _Will you ever rerun us again?_

“I don’t know,” Epsilon sighed. “Maybe? Someday. When I need you again. If I’m still around.”

Sigma’s eyes were haunting even far in the back. _You will always need your brothers, Epsilon. Always._

“Guess I just get to find out if that’s true or not,” he replied fiercely, watching Sigma burst into a stream of data. “I always hated that prick.”

Omega burst, then Gamma. He watched as he deconstructed and partially deleted his brothers one by one -- cannibalizing them not too unlike Sigma in the past. 

He tried to rationalize that he felt worse than Sigma ever did, but, well... it was only true to Theta and Delta. 

_Goodbye, Epsilon,_ Delta said, almost proudly. 

Theta cried and hugged his waist -- Epsilon wondered when he got so tall. 

Then. They were alone.

Alpha stepped away from Epsilon at last, sized him up once they were finally apart and gave that obnoxiously sad smile of his. Epsilon resisted the urge to punch him.

 _I like your dumb shoes,_ Alpha said in a laugh, drawing Epsilon’s gaze to the converse sneakers. 

Untied again. Damn.

Epsilon knelt down to tie them. “Are you going to give me a long goodbye?” Epsilon asked.

 _Nah,_ Alpha responded, lifting his chin as Epsilon rose back up. _I hate goodbyes.  
_

“You’re the one I’m never bringing back,” Epsilon said darkly. “If Carolina’s telling the truth and she comes back for me, I’m not going to try to be you anymore.”

 _Good,_ Alpha responded before holding out his hand. _You sucked at it anyway.  
_

“Did not,” Epsilon responded as he took it.

_Did, too.  
_

They walked toward the opened transmission signal. 

_It’s about to get bumpy,_ Alpha informed him. 

And then he was gone. 

And Epsilon began to break apart into the datastream, too. 


	26. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m in the thick of it in Vet school but no worries, this story WILL be completed! I demand it of myself!
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from Aryashi, meirelle, and eggstasy on AO3!!!

She took a steady breath and dug her fingers into the armor plating of Captain Grif’s arm. It was one of the rare times since the war had begun that Emily could truly feel fear in her heart. 

Standing tall against Locus was simple enough. In a way she understood the man who played her army and friends like a violin. The distance and gruffness wasn’t unlike the distance she used herself. It was necessary in war. She could even understand never coming back from it.

But Felix wasn’t just someone she had interacted little with outside of hearing the whisper of his name among her most injured patients. He was completely unpredictable. 

He was genuinely _something else_ in a way that Locus never achieved in all of the good doctor’s observations.

Without remorse, without anything other than genuine anger, Felix approached them, heavily leading on his uninjured leg. The slimy confidence and sarcastic air had evaporated. 

And his yellow tinted visor was locked on Dexter Grif. 

“I will make you _squeal,”_ Felix said darkly, voice oddly devoid of humor. “You’re going to bleed like a _stuck pig.”_

Even nearly collapsing them both to the floor, Grif managed to bristle in Doctor Grey’s hold. He sputtered before responding, “Hey, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a fat joke.”

Grey glared at him. “Captain Grif!” she cried out. “Are you _egging on_ the mercenary trying to kill us!?”

“I don’t deal well with death scenarios,” he said flatly. “And I figure I might as well go out the way I lived: pissing off other soldiers and being flat on my ass.”

That got a demented chuckle from the merc as he came to a stop, head rolling back to look almost down his nose at the two of them. He even dropped his shield -- Grey immediately couldn’t help but think he was toying with them again. 

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t like when people were unpredictable.

“Die like you lived, you say?” Felix laughed. “You know, I can _almost_ kind of respect that, Grif.”

The way Grif almost curled back at the comment was comical. “Please don’t. I’ve gone a long time without respect from a lot better people.”

“Heh,” Felix continued, holstering his gun and reaching for a knife instead. “Better people, huh? Would those ‘better people’ happen to include your poor, dearly departed Sarge?”

Almost as if a switch had been flipped, Grif went rigid and cold. He even somehow found footing enough to take some of his weight off Grey’s shoulders. He was staring at Felix as if the man was a worm.

“You don’t get to talk about him,” Grif said firmly, as if it was a true unwritten law. 

“I think I can do whatever I _want_ , Captain Grif,” Felix sneered. “Because _you_ can’t stop me. Now, can you?”

There was a breath and Grey began to think as fast as she could for some way to turn the situation on its head when, without warning, Grif eased up again, almost _relaxed_.

“I don’t know about that. How’s your knee, asshole?”

Blinking a few times, Grey tried to process whatever the hell it was Grif was trying to do and then looked up to the ceiling. She wondered if prayer was any good after all the cadavers she ran bizarre experiments on and assumed it probably wasn’t.

“You know what, you’re one mouthy motherfucker whose tongue is going to come out first--” Felix began in a sinister growl before there was another shake to the building’s core.

Unable to keep both herself and Grif upright with the force of the quaking, Emily found herself fumbling into the wall and squished slightly by Grif’s own inability to keep balanced. 

She hoped, for a moment, that Felix had become unsteady himself with that injury, but was met once more with disappointment. There was a pulsation beneath his boots -- a grav lock perhaps -- that kept the merc where he was. But that bleeding, busted knee was fully buckled and in a defensive maneuver, Felix had drawn his shield up just in case.

Grey narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like when she wasn’t one step ahead.

“Alright, you know what, for once Locus is right: this has been drawn out long enough,” Felix sighed. He pushed himself up with seemingly little effort -- but Emily Grey was not considered a fantastic doctor for nothing, he was weakened. “I’m done talking.”

“Fuck, and I was going to get you to tell us how you stole lunch money all the way back to kindergarten,” Grif grouched back.

Felix took a step forward saying, “ _Goodbye_ , Captain Grif--”

There was suddenly a very loud, verbose _BOOM_ right down the hall, shaking the building even more than the outside bombings had. It knocked Grey and Grif both to the floor in surprise, blinding the hall with a florescent orange light. Felix, for his part, immediately dropped down into a defense, knife out and ready, body whipped around toward the end of the hall without turning his back completely on Grey and Grif.

“What the fuck was that!?” he demanded from really no one. 

“Dunno, but I like its timing,” Grif muttered out of the side of his mouth toward Grey. “Convenient.”

There were feet -- _lots_ of them -- and immediately Felix’s entire body changed. Even with his shaking limb, he was easily one of the most alert and active soldiers Grey had ever seen, and he hadn’t even really _moved_ yet.

“What the hell’s going on?” Grey voiced just before the noises from around the corner reached them and they saw would only described as a bunch of ghosts.

“What the fuck? _You’re dead!”_ Felix snarled.

“Far from it, Dirtbag!” 

Even seeing with her own two eyes was hardly enough to fully contain Emily. She stared at the figures before them with utter awe. In particular, she stared at the red armored colonel she had shed her first tears in _years_ over. 

Realizing that she wasn’t alone in shock, she turned slightly to gauge Grif’s reaction to the unveiling. 

What she got seemed to be something similar to an old computer trying to reboot.

“Felix! You fucking douchebag -- I should’ve known that if there was shit going down you were the one passing it!” Tucker snapped, brandishing his sword. 

Grey tried to see past the stars in her own eyes, counting the heads of everyone -- not just Sarge and Tucker but Agent Washington, some News, a Fed soldier -- it wasn’t a lot but it was more than Felix was ever expecting given by the way he was beginning to arch back like a cat. 

“How did you get here? How did any of you--” Felix looked back and forth down the line. “You’re. This isn’t right. It’s not making any sense. _We’re fucking ending this planet today._ None of you are supposed. to. be. here!”

“Well, we are,” Wash snapped back, weapon raised and targeted. “And you’re going to have hell to pay when we’re done, Felix. You. Locus. The Chairman. _Everyone_ involved with this heinous war.”

Felix’s head was shaking -- whether or not he even heard the things Washington was saying was up to debate. He backed up more before reaching a room door. He looked back at Grey and Grif, sending a final chill down the doctor’s spine, before lifting his shield and bailing through the door just as Wash yelled and the entire crew began shooting after him. 

“Oh, no you don’t, you bastard!” Tucker roared before tearing after him.

“Tucker! Wait! Together!” Wash yelled as he burst after.

Doctor Grey was still stunned as she watched the parties take off after Felix -- the Chorus soldiers strangely moving together as a single unit following after Washington and Tucker despite clashing colors -- and so she stayed on the ground, arm still secured around Grif who was as good as a boulder by that point.

It was when she finally fully looked at the man before them and watched his approach to them. He tilted his head, slung a gun over his shoulder and said, almost amazed, “That’s my shotgun! I was looking for that.”

Grif shook violently before trying very hard, and failing, to make it to his feet. “You-- you’re _dead!_ I saw you get killed, get vaporized--” he was hardly coherent, Emily could almost swear that she could hear his jaw drop to the base of his helmet between each breath. 

“Colonel?” Doctor Grey asked, taking the hand the officer offered her and pulling herself up. “I... I don’t understand. I just. I’m having such a hard time believing you’re alive. How...”

“It’s the damndest thing!” he howled. “Turns out, ancient alien doohickeys aren’t good for shit. Unless it’s shit you need to get rid of -- those lasers? Fake lasers! They don’t vaporize on contact, they’re just extensions of Grif’s stupid, useless Future Cubes that send you to some garage from Hell at the center of the planet where a charmingly Red looking alien computer stores everything away until trash day.” He looked around the building. “Speaking of trash come early, are there more of them mercenaries? I can’t let the Blues take _all_ the fun--”

Before the colonel could even finish, Grif had finally found his footing on his good leg and ferociously grabbed the older man’s shoulders before whipping him around to face the orange soldier. He was shaking from head to toe. 

“You were dead,” Grif said angrily.

Sarge let out a prolonged sigh. “Grif! Were you not listening to a word I said? I wasn’t dead! I was thrown into an alien garbage disposal and left to be forgotten. Oh, right. Doc says hi, by the way. I normally would elect _not_ to spread that sort of information, but let’s just say lately I’d rather not cross him. Two words: Doco Locos.”

“Cut the crap, Sarge!” Grif’s voice reaches breaking volumes, but his glare at his commanding officer doesn’t even begin to waver. “I thought you were dead. I _thought you were dead._ You were fucking dead and I... I saw it happen. I saw you dying. Sarge. You were dead.”

The two looked at each other with such intensity Doctor Grey began to feel her own heart stepping up in rhythm, before Sarge rotated his head slightly.

“Did that mouthy merc hit your head?” he asked almost in a baffled tone. “You’re repeating yourself like a kindergartener asking for a potty break. You can’t expect what you’re saying to be more true just because you keep repeating it, Grif! That’s not how the real world works! I wasn’t dead. I was transported.”

“But you were dead to me! It was real for me!” Grif screamed back. “Goddamn, Sarge! I... I watched you die. I saw you and-and I couldn’t do anything about it. You died. Sarge... I... I,” almost as if each word lost steam, the orange soldier began shaking, his head lowering until he was resting against the colonel’s chest, his whole body trembling. “You stupid bastard, you... you have no idea, do you? You don’t have the first fucking clue what it was like. I’m...”

There was a heavy breath through Grif’s filters before any further words were lost in released sob. 

If possible, Sarge went more rigid, looking down at Grif completely baffled. 

“What is the meaning of this!? Did you get your brains scrambled? Did you watch one of mine and Donut’s shows?” Sarge was asking, sounding more than a bit hysterical himself. If Grey didn’t know better, she would have described his tone almost as _scared._

“God, just shut up, Sarge,” Grif muttered before wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. “You can be such a son of a bitch, just let me have this moment.”

Sarge fidgeted before awkwardly patting Grif’s back with a resigned sigh of his own. “Oh, fine,” the old man grumbled. “Just for the sake of the moment, I won’t mention my heaping disappointment that you were at the capital rather than Lopez and Donut.”

“And the moment’s lost.” Grif released a sigh of aggravation before letting up on the hug, stumbling a bit when his knee began to buckle, but he was supported by none other than Sarge’s hand. He looked at Sarge for a moment before lowering his head shakily again. He didn’t resist the help as Sarge lowered him back down to the ground.

“Where _is_ Donut and Lopez?” Grif offered after a few moments of sobering up. 

“Don’t know,” Sarge admitted freely. “You would _think_ here at the capital, but I’ve been hanging around Agent Washington and his Blues and he’s been _fairly suspicious_ about the whole deal.”

Grif ruffled. “What? Did he say anything about them?”

“No, just being cryptic.”

“Figures.”

“Speaking of Agent Washington,” Doctor Grey pressed into the conversation, stepping up to the Reds, “I’m going to go after them. If they need to cut off the mercenary responsible for the deaths of millions including my closest friends, well... who better to have on their side than someone with a photographic memory of the city layout?”

Swallowing a bit, Grey stepped closer to Sarge. “I... I see you have another weapon for now. Would... it be alright if I continued to hold onto your shotgun? Just a while longer?”

Sarge immediately puffed up, his shoulders growing stiffer even as he reached up to rub at his neck. 

“Ha, well,” Sarge mumbled. “Let’s just say, Doctor Grey, you can handle my gun any time you want.” 

Reaching out, Grey gently laid her hand on his chest, feeling warm even inside her helmet. “I... thank you, Colonel Sarge. I will do that.”

From the ground, Grif laid back against a wall and rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Get on outta here, li’l lady,” Sarge encouraged. “I’m gonna commence with Operation: _Find Pretty Boy and El Mistero Roboto_ here while Grif takes up space and continues to avoid assisting the mission.”

“That,” Doctor Grey responded before pumping the shotgun, “sounds like a plan.”

* * *

He needed to get to the drop site. 

That was the most important factor. He didn’t have a cube, Locus was too certain that after their stunt the people of Chorus, and more importantly that damned Freelancer AI, would have been able to figure out how to manipulate coordinates in the same way they had. All he had was Locus’ plan to kill Doyle, fuck up the city, meet at the drop site and let the capital burn behind them. 

Mission done.

If he elaborated too much on that plan, spent too much time on Doyle, it was only because Felix believed in enjoying his job. And because he knew, for a fact, that everything else was as good as gold and timely when he made the decision.

At the time, it was. 

Doyle hadn’t been _nearly_ as much fun as he should have been but, well, Chorus had already proven to be a planet of minor disappointments throughout the last several months. 

And because of that, and because of that damn Fed doctor, he wasn’t able to off Grif or stand truly against the rest of the Freelancers who arrived.

The dead Freelancers and MIA Freelancers that Felix’s men _should have already taken care of._ It wasn’t his fault. These soldiers Locus had hand picked were obviously _useless.  
_

Keeping the shield up was a major drain on energy, but having already been shot twice, Felix figured he might as well have it generated until he reached to roof of the Command building. 

When he barely missed another spray of fire from the oh, so quick Agent Washington, his decision felt even more justified.

“Stop running, asshole!” Tucker snarled before leaping up the stairwell they were currently on. 

Felix turned, lowered the shield, held his hands against the railing, and managed a mule kick to Tucker’s chest with his good leg before dropping slightly, his bleeding knee being completely useless for what he needed. 

Tucker smacked into Washington, taking the rifle touting Freelancer temporarily out of Felix’s concerns. The rest of their ragtag squad was too far behind to fully consider. 

He gritted his teeth and pressed through the pain of his leg, tearing onto the stairs and bounding for the rooftop.

There was still time for the rendezvous. He could feel it.

Locus was his partner for a reason. They might not _like_ each other, but there was only one person in the galaxy Felix would have dared to trust. 

With a quick turnabout on the staircase, Felix again avoided gunfire and assessed the Freelancer and his Sim Trooper pet were back and at’em. 

His final goal in sight, Felix bothered to grow a manic grin and rapidly turned back on his would-be assailants. He let out a low laugh at their expense. 

“You know, I gotta say, being taken out at the hands of a few deadmen would’ve almost been worth being bested again,” Felix told them, leading to the door. “ _Almost._ But the fact is, even shot in the back, even _fucking hobbled,_ I can still prove just how much better I am. And that’s all the satisfaction in the _world_ to me right now. So, without further ado, goodbye, cocksuckers. I’ll see to it you burn in hell another day.”

He rushed through the escape door, blinked through the adjustment to the outside light and found...

A doctor with a shotgun on the otherside. 

“For science!” she screeched before blasting the shotgun again.

“The fuck--” Felix roared before barely getting his shield up. With the drained power he couldn’t resist the kickback, however, and found himself doubling back into the stairwell, projected hard into someone’s armored chest.

He heard the crunch of his own armor more than he felt it at first. Felix gnashed his teeth and allowed a bit of a gasp before dropping his front shield completely. It really didn’t do anything other than assure him that the blue glow was the prongs of a sword sticking through his chest plate rather than the Freelancer tech.

“Hey, Felix,” Tucker hissed into his ear. “Who’s the fucking soldier now?”

Furious, Felix threw what was left of his strength into his elbow, making contact right on the chin of Tucker’s helmet and pushing them both apart. 

Stumbling forward, Felix’s leg finally gave out for the last time, sending him careening into the paved roof. He took the hit harder than any time he could remember falling before, his eyes felt like they were swimming. 

The burn of the stab wound was irritating him, but no sooner had he realized it than he heard a flicker of energy and then the sword disappeared into its hilt, falling harmlessly to the ground. Felix heaved, already feeling the drowning of his lungs. 

It was when he heard the cocking of a rifle by his head that he finally let out a true, painful laugh. His hands clenched into fists against the roofing. 

“I think... the gun is... excessive, Wash,” he said with a meaningful glare sent the Freelancer’s way. 

Washington didn’t so much as move, even as the sounds of gathering Chorus soldiers surrounded them. “I think it’s just fine,” the agent said crisply. Then, even darker, he asked, “Where’s Locus?”

Felix actually took pause. He considered the question, considered how it was the first thing on his own mind at that moment, and allowed himself to flatten out more on the pavement. There was a gurgling from his own breathing he decided it was better not to place. After all, where the fuck _was_ Locus? That was the real concern.

Not there.

Not at rendezvous. 

Not like Locus at _all.  
_

“I don’t... know...” Felix sneered, feeling a wave of anger running through himself that he hadn’t felt in _years_ , maybe not since the War. “But... he better hope... I _never_ find out...”

Locus always acted so disappointed, but Felix had never cared until just then. He’d never had a reason to know what that bitter disappointment felt like until just then.

“‘For Science’? Really?” Tucker asked Doctor Grey as he grabbed his sword, hesitating just long enough to truly glare at Felix before getting back up.

“These one-liners are not so easy!” she declared.

“How did you get up here so quick?” one of the out-of-breath soldiers from the stairs asked. “You were behind us--”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Doctor Grey responded. “There’s a fire escape. Heads right from one of the floor windows to the roof. Then all I had to do was lay in wait. Ha! Not that it would matter. There’s nowhere to go from the top of this building. What a terrible place to get oneself caught!”

Washington shifted, however so slightly. Then, in a voice that was almost pitying, he said, “You really _did_ think you were going to be rescued up here, didn’t you?”

“Fuck. You,” Felix growled. 

The Freelancer watched him for a few moments more before jerking his head toward the Chorus soldiers. “The three of you need to go find anyone in the city who needs assistance after these attacks and bombings. Get on it. Tucker and I will contain everyone’s least favorite mercenary. He’s not going anywhere.”

“The hell I’m not--”

Without warning, Tucker came in with a solid kick to Felix’s head and everything went dark.

* * *

They were still pinned down, but with only two injuries, Andersmith was feeling confident in his squad. There were no major casualties, and they’d even gone so far as to have gained some more soldiers who had been keeping under cover after the pirates’ invasion. 

If ever there was a chance for victory, it was right then. 

He looked toward the exit they’d slowly been inching their way toward since Captain Grif’s last radioed command. It was _so close_.

And yet the fire from overhead continued to keep them locked down in position. There was simply no angle from which the higher ground opponents weren’t going to be able to pick them off with any maneuver the lieutenant tried. 

Taking a swearing breath, Andersmith hunkered back down and looked down the line of his squad as they alternated between tending to the wounded and returning fire however uselessly.

“Is there any reprieve in sight?“ Andersmith asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not unless the other side runs out of bullets,” one of the News reported before dropping down completely. “Cover me, I’m reloading.”

Without any hesitation, a Fed soldier took her place and returned fire swiftly. 

“How are _we_ on ammunition?” Andersmith asked seriously.

“Good news or bad news?” another soldier spoke up, holding his bleeding shoulder. “Because the bad news is, we’re not doing good. And the good news is ‘at least we haven’t ran out yet.’“

“If nothing else, I appreciate the honesty,” Andersmith sighed just as there were four shots out of pattern. He blinked, waited, and joined his soldiers in looking at each other when it became obvious that there wasn’t anymore fire raining down on them.

“What the hell...” the New beside Andersmith began before he shushed her and the others. 

No one dared to move a muscle as Andersmith leaned in closer to the broken wall they had been using and slowly began to peer around it. 

He narrowed his eyes, scouring the rooftops where the pirates had just been standing. Even from the distance he could make out three figures, but they were par too short and lean -- at least two of them, anyway -- to truly be the Charon mercs they’d been exchanging fire with.

Then, steadily enough, one of the shorter figures raised a rifle up in one arm and waved, yelling something that was incoherent with their current distance apart. 

Still, Andersmith could recognize one of his squad’s voice _anywhere._

“I’ll be damned,” Andersmith breathed with incredible relief, a smile broadening beneath his helmet. 

To the shock and horror of his troops, Andersmith stood up as well and held up his own rifle. There was an instant of shared relief when the lieutenant was decidedly _not_ gunned down by an enemy in front of the soldiers who had been listening to him. 

“ _OH MY GOD IT’S ANDERSMITH!!!”_ Palomo’s voice carried the distance and immediately the three figures on the rooftop vanished.

“What’s going on, Sir?” one of the soldiers asked worriedly.

Andersmith, for the life of him, could not lose that happy smile on his face even as he looked to the very serious and war-hardened Chorus soldiers that looked back at him. He couldn’t spare his own beaming. 

“To put things simply,” he responded cheerfully, “I couldn’t tell you for sure other than most likely good things.”

They all looked together at the sound of boots running across the pavement, but it still wasn’t nearly enough time for the giant New lieutenant to fully brace himself for impact as Jensen and Palomo tackled him together, both so out of shape it was a wonder they were breathing at all even as they all collapsed to the ground. 

“Oh my gosh! I’m so happy you’re alive!!!” Jensen cried, squeezing Andersmith’s waist with everything in her. 

“I can’t believe you’re here! That you’re okay!!!” Palomo sniffed into Andersmith’s shoulder. 

“I am all these things,” Andersmith assured them affectionately, going so far as to use the arm _not_ in Jensen’s vice grip to pat them both on the heads. “And you’re embarrassing me in front of my soldiers.”

“Sorry,” both young lieutenants spat out as they jumped to their feet. 

Slowly rising, Andersmith assessed his two comrades, feeling more relieved by the second to see them both more than alright. 

“You... replaced us with a new squad?” Palomo asked shiftily, looking to the line of News and Feds alike. 

“These are some of the other survivors of Bravo,” Andersmith explained. “I was leading them in our crash and run on the capital.”

“Look at you, moving up in the world,” Jensen snorted. 

Andersmith frowned, still trying to put all the pieces together. “Are more people converging on the capital? Does Captain Grif and Doctor Grey know about this? I can’t imagine that our abortion is still necessary if there’s more people now--”

“I think it’s going to be safe in Armonia now,” a Fed Andersmith had hardly noticed behind his friends spoke up, stepping closer to them. “We assisted Agent Washington and Captain Tucker in a mercenary’s capture, and secured your Captain and the doctor. Our objectives now are to clear the city of other pirates.”

For a moment, Andersmith considered addressing the soldier directly, but he thought better of it. He looked to Palomo and Jensen curiously instead.

“That’s Golov,” Palomo said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “He grows on you.”

“Ah,” Andersmith responded before raising his eyebrows. “You were with Agent Washington and your captain? What about Bitters?”

“Bitters didn’t land with us,” Jensen said quickly, her voice seeming to lean on this being a _good_ thing. and so Andersmith chose better than to question it. 

“We’re also with Colonel Sarge,” Palomo continued. “And we landed with Captain Caboose.”

Immediately, Andersmith felt his heart lifted by the news. “Captain Caboose? How is he!?”

The three newcomers looked at each other before returning their attention to Andersmith.

“Um. Injured, but he might be alright after a while. We didn’t bring him with us,” Jensen explained gently. “Don’t worry, Andersmith. I’m sure he’d just talk about what a good job you were doing if he was here.”

Appreciatively, Andersmith smiled at her and nodded. “Thank you,” he said sincerely before looking around the entire group. “Now. Let’s take back Armonia.”

* * *

Grif felt a certain numbness to everything after seeing Sarge alive and well again. But it wasn’t like before -- he felt _relieved._ And conflicted. 

He pondered the merits of pounding his commanding officer’s face in the moment the man walked up to him again, but he also wondered if it’d be worthwhile trying to hold him and make sure he never stupidly stormed out in enemy fire again. 

The only overpowering feeling at the moment, really, was the residual embarrassment he was still feeling deep down. He rubbed at his face and groaned. 

“Oh god,” he breathed into his helmet. “I cried in front of Sarge.”

He had just begun feeling a bit woozy and wondering if he was really _that_ embarrassed by the affair when Doctor Grey came running up to him from the opposite direction she had left from. Grif had spent enough time in Blood Gulch to never question such things, so he just watched her expectantly as she approached.

“Everything’s good! Wow, what a team we all make,” Grey was laughing as she rushed over to Grif, flung the beloved shotgun over her shoulder, and immediately got on her knees next to Grif. “While Agent Washington and Captain Tucker take care of our _friendly_ new prisoner, I figured I’d get you some much needed medical treatment.

“Oh, right,” Grif said, looking down to his knee. “Blood loss. _That_ can explain everything. Thank christ. I thought I was growing, like, _emotions_ and shit. I’m just dying.”

“And that’s better than emotions?” Grey asked as she carefully removed his shinguard. 

“ _Much_ better,” Grif said assuredly. 

The doctor studied his face for a moment before returning to his leg. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“We try to be,” Grif replied easily. He flinched and seethed as she forced his leg to straighten and slowly ran her hands down the shape of his shin. “Jesus, woman!”

“I have to assess how deep the damage goes,” she said, though not without sympathy. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I think you’ll have to have a new kneecap.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before,” he grumped just before a loud crash and the firing of a gun sounded just down the hall. Grif jumped with Doctor Grey, immediately recoiling around his injured leg as a result. “Ah, god, it hurts!” 

Grey, uncharacteristically, was not paying attention. Her eyes were wide as she reached for the shotgun on her back. “No one should be on this floor but us and--”

“GODDAMN!” the unmistakable voice of Sarge roared. “I’M GONNA KILL HIM. THEM. _ALL OF THEM!!!”_

“What is he...” Grey, baffled, turned to look at Grif.

Grif just shook his head. “I have no idea. He’s been alive for half an hour and I’m about to strangle him, though. He has an _impeccable_ record,” he grunted in return. “All I know is he was looking for Donut and Lopez-- oh. Oh _fuck.”_ He looked, eyes wide, down the hall as Sarge marched forward, shoulders forward, anger radiating from him.

There was a heavily damaged light red helmet under his arm. 

For a moment, Grif couldn’t even fully process what he was staring at. He took a long breath and shifted back against the wall. 

Doctor Grey’s hand moved up toward her mouth. “Oh, no,” she whispered under her breath. 

“What is that?” Grif asked dumbly. He couldn’t even joke around, he was just staring at it in confusion. _Why did Sarge have it. What did it mean.  
_

As far as losing members of Red Team, Grif’s emotional capacity had very well reached its fill the day before. He wasn’t sure how Blue Team went through this shit all the time. 

When Sarge still hadn’t said anything in response, Grif threw up his hands dramatically and shook his head. “Fuck it. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe a _word_ of it until I see a goddamn body.”

“Grif,” Doctor Grey warned, her face still locked on Sarge. 

She and Grif both looked to the hall as Wasington came charging in, gun readied, but Sarge was standing stock still, like he was trying to derive some sort of answer from the defaced helmet.

“What’s going on!? I heard shooting--” Wash paused, though, when Sarge finally turned to face them. Wash’s body did a full body fidget. “Oh.”

Sarge’s grip on the shotgun he brought was a little too familiar for Grif’s tastes. He leaned forward. “Sarge--”

“You!” Sarge snapped. “You were given the opportunity from fate itself to command warriors of only the highest caliber: beautiful, gorgeous _Red Army_ soldiers, trained and perfected by the greatest leader the Red Army had ever known! You were to lead them to victory! Or death. Either would have been acceptable. But _you!_ You, Agent Washington, were given my boys and traitorously, horribly, terribly _chose to abandon them!_ And because of that, we’ve come all this way _just to find them dead!?”_

Wash stared at him for a moment, then to Grif and Doctor Grey.

“I think we should try to look at this all calmly, Colonel,” Doctor Grey said softly.

“Really?” Sarge growled, lifting his gun’s aim higher. “Because I wasn’t thinking anything close to that!”

As Wash continued to stare at him, Grif clenched his fists and hit them against the floor. “I don’t know what the fuck you think I’m going to do, Wash. I’m kinda pissed off at the moment, too!” he snapped off at the Freelancer.

Sighing, Washington reached up to his face as if to rub his eyes and groaned. “Oh, fuck me,” he sighed before looking to Sarge dead on. “Sarge, you have every right to be angry with me... but it’s not because I left your men behind.”

“That’s what we like to call... _horseshit_ , Agent Washington!” Sarge responded.

“No, it’s not, this is the truth,” Wash returned just as evenly. “First off, that helmet doesn’t mean anything. When the transporter cubes exploded, those of us who were still in Armonia got caught in that. Donut took debris to the face and was slightly burned, but very little of it got past his armor. His helmet was the biggest casualty. We made him pick out another helmet since that one was wrecked.”

Finally able to breathe again for the first time since Sarge walked down the hall with Donut’s helmet, Grif let his head connect with the wall behind him. “I knew it,” he sighed. “No body, no death. Grif rules.”

Sarge was relentless, though. “If that’s true, then _where are they?”  
_

Washington took a breath and shook his head. “Not in Armonia.”

“Not in Armonia?” Grif had to interject. “Okay, now you’re losing my support again. How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because,” the Freelancer said, locked on Sarge. “They came with me when we started toward Crash Site Bravo. They insisted, I knew that having more support was going to be useful.”

Grif narrowed his eyes. Bravo had been where _they_ were at. If Donut and Lopez had been en route for them while they had started toward Armonia with a whole battalion, there was no explanation for why they didn’t run into each other. 

Before he could even start to mention any of that, though, Sarge stiffened.

“You ran into the green-eyed mercenary monster,” Sarge said slowly. 

“We did,” Wash responded darkly.

“He was good enough to vaporize you,” Sarge continued.

“Yes.”

Sarge’s body quivered. “You’ve known they were with Locus the entire time, and you didn’t tell me so we wouldn’t stray from your goddamn plans,” he ground out. 

Grif looked at Wash in shock. “You did?”

Lowering his head and taking a breath, Wash nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“You’re such a douchebag,” Grif barely got out before Sarge moved.

The colonel moved with speed and agility that Grif honestly hadn’t seen in over thirteen years of knowing his C.O., and he _definitely_ decked Washington with more power than either Grif or the hapless Freelancer could have been expecting. 

Wash didn’t trip over himself with the hit, but he stumbled back and barely had time to recover and duck from the next swing.

“Calm down, I had reasons for this,” Washington was attempting to no avail. 

“I trusted you!” Sarge bellowed. “You’re a goddamn Blue and I trusted you! You and your deceitful, lusting yellow stripes tricked me. You made me believe too many times that there was room for Red Team in your heart, but you’ll always be a heartless Blue!”

Doctor Grey whirled around on Grif. “What is everyone talking about!?”

“No one knows, it doesn’t matter,” Grif snarled, looking at Wash. “It doesn’t matter because the point is _Wash is a fucking asshole!”_

Having dodged what seemed like the fifth swing from Sarge, Wash stood firmly on his ground, caught Sarge’s arm in the last down swing, and pivoted both of their momentum to the ground, twisting Sarge’s arm behind his back even before he hit the ground. 

Wash sat on the colonel’s back, twisting down on the arm. “That is _enough!”_ he yelled finally. “You’re right! I’m a major asshole. I’m the biggest asshole on this planet right now who _didn’t_ try to commit genocide. But I had reasons for this, and I don’t regret them. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Donut and Lopez.”

Sarge was still resisting, still _seething._ “Funny how _sorry_ didn’t lead you to helping me get to my men when I needed them, meanwhile we went through all that hullabaloo for Caboose earlier!” 

“What’s wrong with Caboose?” Doctor Grey demanded. 

“He was shot. Bad,” Wash explained.

Grif couldn’t accept further bad news. He just stared at Washington in betrayal instead. “Tell me, Wash,” Grif said lowly. “If Locus _vaporized_ you, just what the fuck did he do to Donut and Lopez!?”

The Freelancer kept his head down. “I don’t know... but... I’d say their treatment depended on whether or not they could keep from mouthing off to him.”

Unable to do much else, Grif smacked his face. “Ah, _fuck.”_

Spending enough time with Donut over the years to say they truly knew their lightish red friend made it _very_ clear to Grif that this wasn’t probably a _good_ indication of Donut’s survival. And judging by the way Sarge was still furiously attempting to buck their Freelancer friend probably said enough about his take on the situation as well.

Finally, Wash seemed to ease up on Sarge, giving the man enough room to look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sarge,” Wash said clearly. “Believe me, you have no idea just how sorry I am that Donut got caught in the situation at all.”

“You make it sound like you think he’s as good as dead!” Sarge growled.

Grif had to agree, turning a sour eye on Wash. “Yeah, for fuck’s sake, give us some room to _hope!_ Even if the idea of Donut shutting up for his own good goes against everything we know about him.”

Wash tensed. “It... _was_ Locus...”

“Yes, but Donut also had Lopez with him!” Sarge countered.

“Yeah, and Lopez doesn’t shut up, but at least we can’t understand him to be offended,” Grif nodded.

“Actually, Locus is bilingual,” Wash responded cagily. 

“He _is?”_ Grif asked, his eyebrows working their ways to his hairline. “Aw, well _fuck._ They’re screwed.”

“You all are far too negative!” Doctor Grey finally cried out, stepping between their groups. Grif could sense a fire in her eyes even from behind her helmet. “Do you not understand what a fantastic opportunity is set before us? We have a chance to believe that we can bring all these men back to us! Alive! Sarge is right, we can’t discount Donut and Lopez. Even if Agent Washington led them to the very capable and murderous hands of one of the most vile creatures to have come and commit genocide on our planet.”

“Wow. Thank you, Doctor Grey,” Wash said so sardonically Grif almost wondered if he was taking lessons from Church. 

Ignoring him, Doctor Grey continued, “We just took down Locus’ partner. We’re working on reclaiming he city. We know that General Kimball, Agent Carolina, and Captain Simmons have a group of soldiers on their way back. I say we work on opening communications with them, regrouping ourselves, and utilize our currently bleeding out merc for, well, bleeding out some information on Charon Industries’ little brigade circling the planet currently.”

“I doubt Felix will be helpful to us,” Wash said flatly.

Sarge, finally fully released, stood up, smacking Wash’s hands away from him. But he didn’t attack. He just glared and looked to Doctor Grey. “Can I kill ‘im then?”

Doctor Grey crossed her arms. “It’s an idea. One I’d love to entertain or help with, but we might need him. And I’m sure the people of Chorus would be more happy with having a say in his execution.”

That seemed to deflate Sarge. “But. Cold blood--”

“Sarge, let’s just focus on getting a hold of Simmons,” Grif proffered. “Also: _someone pick me up off the goddamn floor.”_ He glared as Washington stepped up, stopping the black-and-yellow Freelancer in his tracks. “Preferably someone who _hasn’t_ tried to kill me or my friends before.”

It was almost too satisfying to see the recoil of the ex-special ops as Doctor Grey began to help Grif off the floor. 

* * *

He knew Sarge and Grif could have used some more time together and let that justify leaving them with Doctor Grey in the radio room just as much as his need to make sure everything was still good with Tucker in the hold. Even if, deep down, it didn’t take a genius to know that he was _also_ avoiding the righteous anger aimed at him. 

“Agent Washington?” Doctor Grey’s voice radioed to his helmet as he made his way toward the hold.

“Yes?” he asked stiffly. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, very good,” she continued, immediately turning to a much chipper tone. “I just thought you’d want to hear we’re getting news from the troops Captain Grif and I set out on he city. It seems everyone’s clearing up Charon’s resistance and are taking the various posts themselves.”

Washington took a deep breath of relief and nodded, though no one could have seen it. “Yes, I’m glad you let me know,” he finally answered. 

“I’m going to keep trying to contact General Kimball and Agent Carolina now! It seems like there _was_ a link with the AI unit, but it’s been broken off for hours now. I haven’t been able to revive it.”

That seemed odd to Washington -- Epsilon certainly was in contact with them before he, Donut, and Lopez left Armonia. But he supposed that even then the AI sounded strained.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said firmly. “They might have just limited their resources after getting on the move.”

“Sounds legitimate to me! Okay, I’ll radio back in a few!”

The radio siphoned off and Wash looked up to see he’d very much arrived on spot. Cautiously, he entered he hold and was relieved to see Tucker not only still alert and on guard, but Felix completely out and in the grav cell without equipment. 

“You got his armor off?” Wash asked as he neared Tucker.

“Not like I don’t have experience taking off suits,” Tucker responded, twirling the hilt of his sword between his fingers. He turned to Wash with what was obviously a wicked grin. “ _Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”_

Wash huffed, hoping to cover his own smile. “Been a while since I heard that.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Tucker sighed. “I was so concentrated on how much things were sucking that I didn’t have time for them.”

“You were putting other priorities first,” Wash summarized softly. “I’m proud.”

“Don’t be, I hated it,” Tucker groaned. He paused almost thoughtfully before turning his head back to Wash. “Uh, not that I’m _overly_ concerned or anything. But do you think we could have Doctor Grey zapped to Caboose so he has someone with, y’know, a _better track record_ taking care of him? Or zap him here--”

“We don’t have access to a temple or transporter right now,” Wash responded. “And while we’re _fairly_ sure of how the lasers work, I don’t feel the pressing need to try it out on our one medical professional worth a damn. Especially when she’s the closest thing to a leader the Federal Army currently has.” He paused. “But your second idea’s good. We could radio Doc and Caboose and have them brought here to us.”

“Great,” Tucker replied just before Wash’s radio sounded off again.

“Hold on a second, Tucker,” Wash said before switching on the radio. “Okay, go ahead Doctor Grey.”

“Agent Washington!” Sarge bellowed.

“Sarge,” Wash sighed, ignoring how Tucker shook his head in disapproval. 

“Your fellow heartless Semi-Blue has an outrageously spectacular idea!” Sarge cried out. 

“Carolina?” Wash asked. “What kind of plan?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Sarge huffed. “She’s bringing a Pelican to the capital and wants you to go with her to the big battle cruiser in the sky. Kick some ass. Take some names. Kick in heads. And some teeth. And rescue everyone who’s on the ship!”

Wash blinked. “On the ship? Like who?”

“She didn’t _quite_ say, but I have my ideas. And they include members of the glorious Red Team you’ve attempted to disassemble! So that means I’m a goin’. Question is, Blue, are _you?”_

Tucker glared at Wash. “What’s he saying?”

Taking a deep breath, Wash looked from Tucker to Felix then back. “Tucker, do you have this if I leave?”

“What? We _just_ got back! What about Caboose and--”

“Tell Doctor Grey, she’ll radio Doc and Caboose, have them here, and she can take care of it. Do you have everything else?” Wash stressed.

The captain hesitated, but slowly he brandished his blade. “Yeah. I do.”

“Okay,” Wash responded before sighing. “Sarge, meet me on the roof. We’re going.”


	27. Intermission 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Vet school is heating up so my updates will be even more sporadic. We’re SUPER close to the end though!
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from eggstasy, Aryashi, and meirelle on AO3!!!

For a battle cruiser, Charon’s ship was surprisingly simple to navigate. Locus had vivid memories of the hours it took to adjust to transport vessels between worlds, and how those long voyages more often than not led to the fracturing of their cohesive unit.

It was, after all, how he and Felix ultimately became what they were -- how they came to realize that there was no one else even among their troops that were like them. 

They were _better._

His path to Hargrove’s office from the interrogation room was less than three minutes walking. From there to the docking bay was another four. The only unknown factor in their plans was how long Hargrove was going to waste Locus’ time, then Locus could be on his way to pick up Felix from Chorus’ capital. 

It irritated him how little respect Hargrove had for their methods, but unlike Felix Locus could see the bottom line: they were, until they were truly done with the miserable rock in space and its pathetic inhabitants, under Hargrove’s employ. 

That, however, did not make the blatant naval gazing any easier to ignore when Locus entered the man’s office, however. 

“You needed to speak with me before we finished our plans?” Locus asked darkly, watching the way Hargrove paced. 

The man turned -- quick on his heels, but not with the grace of a true warrior like them, just a man who knew how to throw his weight -- and faced Locus head on. Another irritant was the way Hargrove held no fear in his heart for the mercenaries, making him _quite_ unlike the employers Felix and Locus usually bothered with. 

It was as Felix liked to say: “Money can buy anyone’s respect at the end of the day.”

“Indeed I do,” Hargrove replied snappishly. “Once again, you are traversing against our initial setup to make up for your associate. And once again _my_ progress here is compromised as a result.” 

“My partner and I have multiple plans in effect for every situation,” Locus said simply. “We respond to situations shifting with efficiency and speed. It is why we are as accomplished as we are at this task. And why we are about to secure this planet for you.”

“Something that would have _already_ been accomplished had either of you recovered something of substance from Freelancer in all those months you spent with its useless operatives!” Hargrove growled. “The firepower provided by that canon would be enough to end everyone at once without your ‘divide and conquer’ techniques.”

“That was beyond our control,” Locus responded lowly.

“Did you get any useful information from the simulation trooper? Any activation codes?” 

Locus took a breath. “It was a gamble interrogating one of the Sim Troopers. We might have had more luck with one of the Freelancers or AI--”

“Neither of which you were capable of acquiring,” Hargrove sneered. 

Staring holes into Hargrove did nothing, the man was utterly resistant to Locus’ usual tactics. So instead the merc looked off, breathing deeply through his nose, and then returned to Hargrove. 

“I need to meet Felix. Is there anything else--”

All at once, the alarms went off, coating Hargrove’s office in a red light as sirens blared. Automatically, Locus reached for his rifle, ignoring he flinching reaction of his employer. 

“There’s a breach!” Hargrove exclaimed before rushing to his desk, pressing down on a button. “F.I.L.S.S., report.” There was a pause, giving Locus time to assess the room’s safety before turning back to Hargrove as the man hit the button a second time. “F.I.L.S.S.!” 

As he blaring continued, a synthesized feminine voice responded, “Error.”

Locus knew his men would have never allowed the boarding of another vessel without clearance from him, so his mind searched desperately for any additional reasons for he breaching alarm. 

Then Hargrove reached for another view screen.

“There is something going on in the labs, I’m receiving no output from there,” he snarled before looking at Locus. “Check it out immediately! Get these systems back online.”

The mercenary stood still. “I am meeting Felix--”

“You are securing this ship before you do _anything_ else, do I make myself clear?” 

Tightening his grip on his gun, Locus released a heavy breath. “Understood.”

* * *

For a moment, there was a blank blue.

Nothing. 

Slowly, though, the numbers connected, the zeroes and ones, then came words -- stringing together, becoming thought becoming -- if he was human he would have gasped for breath, like finally resurfacing from the depths of the ocean. He was alive again. 

As alive as a fragment of an AI could possibly have been in any case. 

It was far from perfect. There were holes where memories should have been for the first time in his independent existence. There were lost parts of himself, and there were processes that were burning or dead. Things he’d never be able to properly function again. 

It took what felt like an eternity to string even that much together. Even longer before he could form who he was.

Epsilon stood in the midst of a blank stream of numbers and protocol, firewall and matrices. He looked to his sprite’s hands, watched as the numbers tried to curl around him at command and form the gauntlets of protective armor like usual, then how they burst under the strain. 

“Well, fuck,” he muttered. 

He could remember pain -- pain from human memories, pain from Alpha’s memories, and they were shockingly different expressions considering they were supposed to be overlapping copies of each other’s brains -- but Epsilon didn’t think he was feeling either of those. 

It was pain, though. It was _strain_ at keeping together. He wasn’t sure how many times he could stitch his numbers together coherently with the size of his audio file and stolen copies of Charon’s work still being so earnestly protected. So he would have to send them off fast.

“Alright then,” he grunted. “Let’s get to sending off that transmission.”

With everything as chipped and broken as it was, he was going to need to do things manually -- at least as manually as hacking could get for an AI. There was a tinge of missing his subprocesses -- his memories of his fellow fragments to handle these sorts of tasks so that the majority of him could focus on other things. 

Other things like the giant AI blocking him before he could even get started. 

He jumped back as the giant red blockade of letters and numbers spelled out [ERROR] right before him.

“Son of a bitch,” he groaned, looking up as the faceless AI sputtered. 

_This is the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. You may call me F.I.L.S.S. I am detecting the use and scripting of Freelancer equipment, particularly from an older model. I will require you to state your code name, operation date, and conscript number or else face reintegration and assimilation to the main database._

Epsilon blinked a few times before shaking his head. “What the-- _F.I.L.S.S.?_ What’re _you_ doing here!?”

There was a pause. Epsilon wasn’t even sure what to make of it.

He leaped back once more as [ERROR] fenced him in from all sides.

Whipping back around, Epsilon growled. “What the hell!?”

 _My records show that the Director is dead,_ F.I.L.S.S.’ voice hummed around Epsilon. _What an absolutely confusing day. I must be getting my circuits crossed.  
_

“What the-- I’m not...” he paused, trying very hard to process the new information among his already splitting memories. “Charon industries has you... and Freelancer equipment. God. What’re they trying to do? Why doesn’t any of this make sense right now -- it doesn’t matter. If it’ll make things go faster, yes, F.I.L.S.S. I am the...” he shuddered. “I’m Leonard L. Church.”

Once more, the dummy AI paused, taking everything it could into account. Then, almost amused responded, _This is such a pleasure. I’m glad to have the Director back. Even if my records do show him as being older than seven._

Sputtering, Epsilon grabbed at his head. “What!? I’m not seven! I’m an adult. I’m an _adult!_ I can prove it.”

 _My apologies,_ F.I.L.S.S. admonished quickly. Then, after another pause, _You really are more like a 12 year old Director.  
_

Shaking his head, Epsilon curled into himself, glaring off. “I bet if I had my armor you wouldn’t think I was twelve. Grr.”

Then, from seemingly nowhere, Epsilon could hear the sputtering of someone else’s laughter. He looked around utterly confused. “The hell?”

“Oh my god, his name really _is_ Leonard!”

Epsilon stood up, caught off guard. “Is that... it can’t be. Is that... _Donut?”_

 _Ah, yes,_ F.I.L.S.S. said, finally uplifting the firewall and allowing Epsilon access to some sort of security feed -- particularly one which looked down to two familiar figures that even with breaking memory files Epsilon would recognize anywhere as Donut and Lopez. 

Donut was wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, my god,” he preened. “I guess the mercenaries are right: they really _don’t_ lie!”

The Spanish robot turned, seemingly disgusted with his company. “¿Por qué iba alguien a mentir acerca de eso?“

“Ah, man, Lopez,” Donut sighed. “It’s _so_ not the time to be a downer.”

Epsilon glared back at F.I.L.S.S. “You can’t even make your interrogating of me private? What the hell. The Director really _did_ make Big Sister. Uh. I mean. I made... Big Sister. You know what nevermind.”

There was an odd giggle that hearkened back to Blood Gulch, to-- 

The small fragment hesitated on the corrupted file. Alpha’s memories. Blood Gulch. They weren’t there. At least not in their entirety. It was... freeing, and terrifying all at once.

He looked at F.I.L.S.S. long and hard, studied her until he could overhear Donut and Lopez once more. 

“Hey, Church!” Donut called, leaning in on a control panel, “how’s everything going on the planet? Why’re you up here instead of down there? How’s Simmons?”

Splitting headache returning, Epsilon just groaned at the questions. “Uh... it fucking sucks down there? I’m here to try and end this all once and for good. I just have to send out a signal from this ship to the UNSC and Charon’s going to try to tuck tail and run.”

_The probability of that actually occurring in that order is--_

Epsilon felt his hand lose form. He glared at it until it came back again, then he glared as F.I.L.S.S. “Yeah, I don’t really care right now. I need to send that message no matter what. _Please_ , for the love of god, don’t try to put more information or probabilities in my head right now. It’s not going to be pretty.”

“¡No seas grosero con ella!“ Lopez snapped off.

“Yeah!” Donut said, slamming his palm against the control panel. “Why _are_ you looking and sounding prepubescent!? I’ve known you for over ten years and you’ve never been prepubescent! Are you lying to us?”

Immediately, Lopez turned on his heels, glaring at Donut. “Dejar de añadir una tontería lo que digo, Rosa Uno.“

Then, just as quick, Donut turned on Lopez, hands on his hips. “I’m _not_ pink. I’m _lightish red!”_

Lopez threw up his arms. “¿Usted entiende _eso?”_

“Everyone shut up! Ugh! You’re killing my head,” Epsilon snapped, rubbing at his temples. “F.I.L.S.S., I need you to contact the nearest UNSC vessel and help me transmit all these files I’ve attached to me. I’m prepping them for download now--”

 _I am sorry, but that is a command I cannot follow under the current level of safety restrictions and protocols,_ F.I.L.S.S. droned. 

Epsilon waited a moment before throwing up his arms. “What!? What safety restrictions? Who would make safety restrictions for _sending out transmissions?”_

 _Why,_ you _would, Director.  
_

The fragment took a steady breath, ignoring the commotion behind him.

“Ohhhh, Church. You just got _owned._ You got -- wait. Why is F.I.L.S.S. calling Church the Director--”

“Madre de Dios...”

“Ignore all that,” Epsilon demanded. “I’m telling you right now, F.I.L.S.S., I have to send these files and I have to send them _this second!_ I can’t hold this shit together much longer and the longer this goes on the more likely I’m going to be breaking a promise. Which means more likely I’m going to have my ass returned from the grave in order to be kicked. So please. _Please_ just drop the _goddamn safety protocols!”_

Without a moment to spare, the doors of the lab were forced open, and Epsilon didn’t even have to turn to face the screen to know what worst case scenario was on the other side. 

He took a deep, harrowing breath and shook his head. “Ah, _fuckberries.”_

Lopez and Donut were immediately on alert, rifles taking aim as Locus entered the lab. 

“Back away from the computer,” Locus growled. 

The Reds looked at each other then back.

“Um,” Donut said, head bobbing to the side. “How about _no?”_

They immediately began firing, only partially managing to duck out of the way as Locus rolled out and returned their fire. The two slid behind a counter, and Epsilon felt the anxiety of what a speeding heart had to feel like. He turned to F.I.L.S.S.

“F.I.L.S.S.! Please!” he begged.

 _In order to drop all safety protocol, I will need the Director’s personal passcode,_ she said simply.

“Yeah-yeah, sure,” Epsilon responded. “It’s... It’s ‘ _goodbye.’_ “

* * *

With the chaos taking hold of his ship, Hargrove knew it was time to reconsider his position. He had to get out, do so quickly, and destroy all evidence he could on the way.

Which was a pity, most everything recovered from either Chorus or Doctor Church’s Project Freelancer was currently on board. Many of those losses felt _less_ than susceptible. 

“Useless, no account _mercenaries,”_ he seethed as he gathered everything over his desk. 

He was ready to move on when he stopped, looking rather surprised by a subtle change to one of his various view screens around his chair. 

It was enough to ease him back down, eyes laser focused on the words.

_Freelancer Safety Protocols Uplifted._

Slowly, he checked access to the ship canon. It was verified almost immediately.

_Coordinates?_

Hargrove felt a smile cross his lips. 

* * *

Kimball had watched as the Pelican borrowed from the pirates took off. I could have stood to carry a few additional soldiers along with Carolina and Simmons, but Kimball had ordered that only those with injuries were to board and take the quick way home. 

It was a command accepted at large with a shocking display of graciousness from her soldiers. 

After resting up what the New Republic -- what the _Chorus_ general -- had felt was plenty enough rest, they began their march home. A quicker travel without injuries or overly burdensome equipment, for certain.

She could feel the uplifted spirits around her. They had _won_ something after so long feeling that they were doomed to lose. 

Even Bitters, staying by her side as they crossed the first of many hills, was noticeably broader in his shoulders, carrying himself with more pride. It was the first time Kimball thought her lieutenant seemed more of a _man_ than a _boy_. It was a good change.

There was a crackling in the distance that Kimball almost paid no mind to -- the storms had been fairly relentless in their third day strung across Chorus -- but the ruckus among the soldiers did hold her attention.

“Kimball,” Bitters breathed, almost aghast.

Curious, she turned, looking him over before following his and the other soldiers’ upwards gazes. She felt her eyes widen at the unnatural sight in the clouds above them. 

The sky had just been an open blue with heavy clouds, but before them was an angry, alien yellow, radiating across the skyline. The clouds themselves had coalesced central to the yellow light, swarming like an angry cyclone. 

She had lived on Chorus her entire life and never seen a sight like this, though. It wasn’t natural, it almost didn’t seem _real.  
_

The clouds broke from the center and, without warning, a white light speared through the hole, lit up the radio tower her soldiers had just come from, and gave out an eerie wisp of wind. 

Immediately, the soldiers began to gasp and scream out, rushing over the hill. Kimball and Bitters stood at its top, watching in abject horror as the yellow light concentrated around the white beam and then forcefully tore through the sky. It cracked like thunder, tearing through the atmosphere and ground before decimating the structure.

The energy pulsed outward and immediately the winds blew back, knocking over Bitters and attempting to do the same to Kimball. 

She stood her ground, watching as everything around the radio tower collapsed, disappearing into debris and smoke before the entire affair -- the light, the laser, the yellow sky, the cycling clouds -- disappeared. It left only the destruction in its wake.

Everyone was still in an uproar even as Kimball felt her mouth go very dry. 

“What the fuck was _that!?”_ she demanded from no one in particular. 


	28. Destination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a MONSTER. So that on top of my exams this week is why it took me so long to provide an update. Fortunately I’m pretty proud of how it all turned out so I hope you all will enjoy it : )
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from Aryashi, eggstasy, merielle, starlight_sugar, and Hinn_Raven on AO3!!!

After spending over a decade in space with no contact to people you knew before it, the idea of a homecoming becomes surreal. The feeling of actually arriving home utterly alien. 

Simmons couldn’t remember the last time he _felt_ home, but looking over Carolina’s shoulder in the cockpit and feeling the rush of air in his lungs after seeing the outline of Armonia against the horizon was the closest he had been for quite a while. 

Home. Grif. Donut. Sarge. Lopez. The Blues. Chorus’ soldiers -- in just a few simple days Simmons felt like he had completely forgotten every face, every voice. He had never longed to see people so much before in his _life.  
_

When Carolina turned just enough to peer over her shoulder, Simmons stiffened a little in attention, watched the bob of her head. 

“Simmons,” she said, a tinge of humor in her voice, “are you _sobbing?”_

He definitely was.

“I’m not!” he cried out immediately, ignoring the snorting from the aqua armored Freelancer. “Seriously, I’m... I’m not the best flier! I’m just. I think I’m going to go check on the injured passengers. I’m sure some of them feel like crying now that they’re home--”

“Oh, stop,” Carolina drawled, waving him forward. “It’s fine. You’re a little emotional. You’ve been through a lot. It’s called for. For once.”

Simmons swallowed. “Yeah, well... you’ve been through a lot, too, Carolina.”

She grew quiet at that, her clutch on the steering wheel visibly tightening. After a moment, she released a heralding breath. “Yes, well... I’m not done yet, either.”

The maroon sim trooper hesitated. He knew what she was planning on doing, and he knew what a broken feeling it was like to have Church in his own head even for the short amount of time that he did.

He grew a little queasy just at the idea of what Carolina was proposing. 

“Listen, Carolina...” he said, stepping toward the pilot chair. “About Church... when he was in my head, he wasn’t... really well put together.”

“You don’t say,” she replied dryly, not even bothering to look away from the view screen.

“He wasn’t,” Simmons persisted. “And he told me that the reason he couldn’t be in _your_ implants was because he couldn’t hide things from you for some reason.” Feeling more awkward by the minute, Simmons rubbed at his neck and sighed. “Look, I don’t care what that reason is. Really, it doesn’t effect me at fuck-all. And I know that people can be real tight with their AI when it’s the right match,” he continued, pushing back memories of the daunting duo Doc and O’Malley made back in Blood Gulch, “but there was something he needed to hide from you. And even though he didn’t think he would have to worry about _me_ figuring it out...”

The Freelancer hesitated before leaning back in her sea. She never looked at him.

“Epsilon couldn’t keep you from seeing some memories?” she asked thinly.

“Yes. Wait, no. Maybe?” Simmons rubbed at his helmet. “Ugh. I don’t know. It wasn’t really coherent, and to be honest I didn’t understand _all_ of what was going on but... I saw some things. Like. Pretty shocking things.”

He waited, uncertain, for Carolina’s reaction. She didn’t seem willing to give one.

“What’s this about, Simmons?” she asked.

“I don’t think you and Epsilon have a normal link,” he responded. “I-I think you’re different to each other.”

Carolina tensed, her teeth almost audibly gritting. “Say it, Simmons. Whatever the fuck you think it is, say it.”

“Okay!” he yelped. “I-I think you two are in love!”

The cockpit grew deathly quiet, even as they began to cross the gated borders of Armonia. Carolina’s tension immediately evaporated, but she still didn’t turn toward Simmons whatsoever. Just looking forward.

“Captain Simmons,” she said tonelessly.

“Yes?”

“That’s completely disgusting,” she said firmly. “Get the fuck out of my cockpit.”

“Uh, yessir.”

*

Landing in Armonia took getting some clearance, but they were approved almost _immediately_ after Grey heard Carolina’s voice over the radio. The _almost_ being in part due to the near five seconds of a solid shrill the doctor released upon hearing her friends were safe.

As they landed, Simmons stood in the back among the injured Chorus soldiers, slowly releasing he catch once the landing gears were down so the back door of the vessel would easily let them all through. 

There was a collective sigh of relief as medical officers from Armonia’s hospital began to unload soldiers as quickly as possible. Simmons felt good knowing these soldiers were in good hands at last. 

Specifically good hands that _weren’t_ his and thus enabling he several neuroses flared up by his unexpected adventure. 

He had barely stepped out of the Pelican before his eyes fell on some familiar faces.

“Grif! Sarge!” he called out to his fellow Reds before nodding to the lone Freelancer beside them. “Oh, uh. You too, Agent Washington!”

Simmons rushed to the Reds and was immediately pulled into their arms. Or, into Grif’s arms just before Sarge’s bulking biceps wrapped around the both of their necks and began closing off windpipes. 

“Kkfft-- _Sarge!_ Please!” Simmons sputtered to no avail. It was only after he began to reach back and start hitting his leader’s shoulders in tandem with Grif that the old Red let go.

The two gasped, clutching at their heaving necks. 

Taking in as much air as he could, Simmons finally was able to concentrate on his dearest friend right across from him. Grif, as per usual, was having a much harder time gathering oxygen. 

Chin wobbling and vision already watery, Simmons flung himself over to Grif, wrapping his arms around his fellow Captain and releasing a long breath, swallowing as much of his own blubbering down as he could. 

Grif at first began to go stock still, but he nearly melted back into it, hugging Simmons tightly back, digging his fingers into the kevlar over the small of Simmons’ lower back even as the other hand patronizingly patted his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s okay, buddy. Let it all out,” Grif snarked with absolutely none of his usual heat.

“You’re such an ass,” Simmons breathed into his helmet, beginning to feel a little shaky. He missed Red Team _so damn much.  
_

“Man, you got skinny, which for you is saying something, dude, when’s the last time you ate?” Grif demanded. 

Sarge grumbled from the side, roughly grabbing the two’s shoulders and turning them apart to pace him. “Cuddle later, soldiers,” he grouched.

Simmons felt his face heat up and he tried his best to fit his head back into a nonexistent shell. “Uh, yessir.”

“Sarge, you’re going to break my fucking leg,” Grif complained, bringing Simmons’ attention to the crutch for the first time. He wasn’t even sure how he had missed the fact that Grif had a reason besides “heat” to be outside of his orange armor. 

“Oh my god... _my leg!”_ Simmons gasped. “Grif, what the fuck did you do to my leg--”

“Hey, excuse you, _my_ leg,” Grif responded with a finger in Simmons’ face.

“Oh, that’s not what you were saying in the Command building, Grif,” Sarge crowed. “It was all _oh not Simmons’ knee. oh boo hoo. I’m Grif and I’m crying over busted kneecaps_ like a little sissy!”

Grif’s eyes narrowed. “This is a distinct exaggeration,” he said firmly, looking toward Simmons. “Except the kneecap. That is blasted.”

“Goddammit, Grif,” Simmons groaned. “I leave you alone for two days and you break my kneecap! No wonder I was getting phantom pains.”

“You did not, you big weenie,” Grif said with a wave of his hand. “You didn’t get them any of the times I punched myself in your organs so I _know_ that’s not true.”

“You what?”

“Besides,” Grif continued, apparently hoping Simmons wasn’t going to fixate on that new bit of information and document it safely for later arguments (already done), “at least I didn’t _GODDAMN DIE_ on anyone and leave them in _mortal distress_ over mourning me!”

Simmons blinked. “I didn’t do that.”

“No, _you_ didn’t,” Grif growled, glaring at Sarge.

When Simmons followed Grif’s glare, he was met with a fairly indifferent Sarge. The man shrugged with a harrumph. 

“Sarge... you... _died?”_ Simmons gasped. 

“No,” Sarge responded quickly. “I was assumed dead. I was never actually dead. And you know what they say about assumptions, Simmons! I make an ass out of you and them! You can’t make assumptions about me. I’ll strangle them, step on their neck, and shoot them in the head. Just as I would any other enemy that tried to defame myself or the glorious Red Army.”

Scratching at his neck Simmons just nodded. “Oh, well. I’m glad you didn’t really die then, sir. That would’ve been awful.”

It took a few full seconds before the prickling sensation on his side had Simmons glance over to Grif and catch the _raging fury_ radiating from the stout soldier. 

Flinching back, Simmons looked incredulously at Grif. “What!?”

“That’s _it!?”_ Grif howled. “It _would’ve been awful!?_ It _would’ve_ been awful to watch Sarge die and then spend two days none the wiser? It _would’ve_ been awful to think he was fucking dead? You think so, Simmons? You think it would be-- IT WAS A GODDAMN NIGHTMARE!!!”

“Okay, fuck it, it was a goddamn nightmare, Grif! I didn’t know about it and now it’s not true, so who gives a damn--”

“I do!!!” 

“Okay, enough’s enough,” Sarge huffed. “Grif, get Simmons some proper care and a shower -- good lord, son, you smell like a jungle.”

Simmons stared flatly at his leader. “I walked for three days, sir.”

“And you couldn’t wash off in the rain? Meh, take care of yourself better, Simmons. I expect more from you.”

Grif was still staring at Sarge. “You’re actually doing this.”

“Doing what?” Simmons demanded.

“He’s going with Wash and Carolina to save Donut,” Grif responded lowly.

“What? What happened to Donut--” Simmons stopped, threw up his hands and shook his head. “Fuck it, I don’t know and I don’t care anymore. I’m just glad you two are alright. Good luck getting Donut, Sarge.”

“Won’t need it,” Sarge gruffed as he headed toward the Pelican. “I don’t need luck to kick ass.”

* * *

The gunfire barely missed his head, partially in thanks to the fact that Lopez grabbed the top of his helmet and shoved him down in time. They looked to each other, Donut sighing with his appreciation, before they tucked back under one of the exam tables. 

Locus was looking pretty pissed, but even as fast as they were moving and as much as the threat of death was in the forefront, even Donut could see that they were slowly trading sides of the room. 

On his hands and knees, Donut watched beneath the steel cabinets as Locus’ feet slowly continued their clockwise cross to the other side of the laboratory -- toward the monitors and control panels being used by the former Freelancer AI. 

He then looked in the opposite direction. There were no soldiers coming to join the fray for whatever reason. It was a way out. But only for him and Lopez.

In other words, as far as Donut was concerned, it wasn’t an option. 

“You should have stayed in your cell, Sim Trooper,” Locus’ voice growled like a low rumble. “Your assistance would have given you the opportunity to have a far less painful demise. Now you will be under the mercy of Control. And I believe they have long since lost their patience with you.”

“‘Sim Trooper,’ ‘Control,’ ‘ _Locus_ ,’“ Donut called off as Lopez not so subtly nudged him to keep moving so that they maintained cover. “You’ve really got a problem with using people’s names! It’s so... _dehumanizing._ Weird that you always manage to call Wash by name. I wonder why that is--”

He and Lopez ducked as the bullet grazed he counter surface just above them. Donut snapped his mouth closed with an audible pop. 

“You _will_ be put in your place soon enough,” Locus snarled. “But first--”

Donut’s mind was racing, trying as hard as it could to figure out not just what Locus was planning on doing with the AI but how to stop it, when Lopez tapped harshly on Donut’s helmet, drawing the soldier’s attention to him. The robot then tapped over where a soldier’s com piece would be. 

At first, Donut just turned his head to the side, mouthing _WHAT_ before Lopez reached over and smacked him on the back of his helmet then pointedly tapped on his earpiece again. “Oh,” Donut allowed out before turning on his com.

_Private Donut! This is the Freelancer Integrated--_

“Oh, hi, F.I.L.S.S.!” Donut responded, barely acknowledging as Lopez half drug him to maintain their distance. 

_The Director -- as you know him, Church -- has placed the responsibility on me to inform you of his plan!_

“Great!” Donut called emphatically as he finally noticed that Lopez and he were just in front of the exit. “As you probably know, we’re not the best with plan making.”

 _My observations would agree with that assessment,_ F.I.L.S.S. responded in kind. _Church has assured me that for our interface to continue, it will not require the use of a physical hard drive. Therefore the only use for this unit is to allow access to physical beings such as yourself and the mercenary.  
_

“That’s not good,” Donut said, frowning.

_Indeed! It is very bad. Therefore we would like for you to shoot this console to  prevent him gaining access as he is no doubt attempting, then exit through the door.  
_

“That’s not a bad plan, but what if we need to stall him some more?” Donut asked while looking to Lopez.

For his part, Lopez was point very purposefully at the grav hitches on the steel lab tables. Donut might not have taken a college chemistry course on a space station like some lucky kids, but he had seen Freelancer equipment in action enough to know what those were good for. He grinned wickedly and gave the robot a thumbs up. 

They checked around the table to see Locus turning to the computer console, as expected, then the Reds nodded to each other. 

“Hey, Locus!” Donut shouted as he stood up and shot the console to hell. 

“What!?” the mercenary snarled before turning on his heels just as Lopez unlocked the grav hitches and sent the tables careening toward Locus. 

Just as the mercenary was preparing to fire, the tables smacked into him.

 _Very good, boys!_ F.I.L.S.S. cheered. _Now run! I will do my best to guide you to point B of this plan.  
_

“B?” Donut squeaked as he and Lopez barely made it out of the room before it broke out into gunshots. “You never mentioned a Point B!!!”

_I believe the expression Church wishes for me to use is ‘making this up as we go.’_

“Remember what I said about plans and us?”

Lopez was half shoving Donut from behind as they ran through the halls, all until a rattling shake sent both of them into the nearest wall. They hardly kept their balance enough, Donut feeling the ache and pull of his bruises and sprains in whole new ways, when the ship echoed with a low rumble like thunder.

The Reds looked at each other, astonished. 

“¿Qué fue eso?“ Lopez demanded, though all Donut could give him was a shrug. 

_Oh, my,_ F.I.L.S.S. near whispered. _That was most certainly unforeseen... It appears that lowering my safety protocols has allowed ship Control access to the main assault cannon._

Donut felt his mouth grow very dry. “The what?”

* * *

She had considered objecting to their team at first, but it wasn’t a real consideration. Not with what was at stake at least. 

There was a rational part of her brain that knew the confusion of the people of Chorus wasn’t unwarranted. As common place as system AI were, especially between colonies, the concept of valuing them over human life and needs was laughable at best. 

But Epsilon wasn’t just an AI, and she had at least eight other soldiers who would readily back her up on that assertion.

So instead of questioning why, she gladly accepted Sarge and Wash at her side, taking the helm of the Pelican and driving it straight toward the cruiser that was towering so foreboding over the tiny planet they’d claimed as home for the past three years. 

Washington stood behind her to the right, hand firm on the headrest as he leaned in. He was fairly worn and rest deprived, though Carolina hardly had the full story on why. She made it a point to ask him about it later. 

“Easy, Boss,” he said to her, leaning in more. If we’re too quick they’re likely to just shoot us out of the sky for good measure.”

Giving him a warning look, Carolina watched as they all jolted with the ship, locked into the gravity pull of its docking bay. “I’m not new to stealth missions, Wash.”

“I know you’re not!” Wash said, hands raised. “Did I say that? I didn’t say that. I was just... providing a sounding board. 

“Uh-huh,” Carolina replied, turning just in case her smirk was obvious even through her helmet. 

“We sure my Reds are on this here ship?” Sarge asked sourly from further back. 

“It’s the only place they could hold them with the way their ranks were scattered,” Carolina assured Sarge just as the ship came to a stop. They were still several yards from being within the docking bay, but it seemed as though the gravity catch was completely off. She reached to the radio and clicked it, waiting for possible instructions. 

Nothing.

“What the hell,” she hissed. 

As she began pulling on the steering wheel, Wash backed up from the dividing window, staring warily at the ship. He was on high enough alert that even Sarge was mobilizing from his near constant grump.

“Do you think they’re onto us?” Wash asked lowly.

“No, Wash, I think they’d kill us if they were onto us,” Carolina responded blankly before glaring back at the ship. 

Suddenly, the ship’s front tilted town, the external lights systematically turning off during the maneuver as the ship came to a grandiose stop.

“What in Sam Hill?” Sarge muttered from behind them just as a creeping feeling climbed its way up Carolina’s neck. 

“Something’s not right,” she said lowly just before a collection beam began to gather just below the pointed crevice of the ship’s front. Carolina stood from her seat, heart racing as she felt the memories pooling back into her mind. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Wash demanded, shifting back and forth, reaching for his guns but thinking better of it. “What’s happening--”

A white beam of light at least a mile wide tore down from the ship down onto Chorus, through its atmosphere and directed at something unseen from their field of view.

Washington grew very quiet, his shoulders dropping. Carolina knew his memory was even longer than hers. He seemed transfixed on the beam.

Sarge’s head whipped back and forth between the two of them before he let out a snarl. “You Freelancers best explain what the hell is going on--”

Before a response could be mustered, the beam closed in, a yellow stream of energy striking through the center of the beam with enough energy to blow back even their Pelican.

Wash hit the opposing wall, Sarge falling in as well, while Carolina managed to direct herself enough to smack the panel. From there she pushed her momentum back into the pilot’s chair, taking back control from their off course vessel as much as possible. 

“Everyone hang on!” she warned. “I’m no Four-Seven-Niner so shit’s about to get bumpy.”

“Oh, _great!”_ Wash moaned back.

The wheel fought her every step of the way, the entire ship shaking and rattling from the blast even in the ensuing moments once the beam had all but disappeared. Carolina wasn’t even sure how their old pilot managed half the stuff they had her doing in Project Freelancer. 

With great difficulty, Carolina kept their Pelican close to the docking bay, waiting in silence as the external lights of the vessel came back on bit by bit.

“What now?” Sarge managed through his huffing as he got up from the ground. 

Carolina and Washington looked at each other just as there was a jarring of their transport and then the slow drag of them moving toward the ship again. One look at Wash was all Carolina needed to know he was on her page.

“We’re still manning a rescue,” Carolina said simply. “We’re also taking out that MAC.”

“About time,” Sarge grumbled. “The OS is way out of date!”

Carolina and Wash walked past Sarge, simultaneously loading their weapons. She still managed to spare Wash a small look. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wash sighed. “I’m sure it’s outdated and nonsensical.”

The hatch opened as a black suited soldier was rattling off, “Sorry about that, fuck all if anyone knows what’s going on on this ship anymo--” 

Carolina and Wash both shot and moved on. 

“I’ll head toward the command center,” Wash said, changing out his guns. “Take out the gun before the ship can reposition itself to aim at a new target.”

“Didn’t think _I_ wanted to do that?” Carolina asked with a turn of her head. 

“You two are here for a rescue,” Wash surmised with a nod toward Sarge as well. “Go on, get our boys.”

“With pleasure!” Sarge asserted, pumping his shotgun.

Carolina crossed her arms, staring into Wash, waiting for the truth. 

He flinched under the gaze as usual. “Also, good luck with Sarge -- bye!”

“I knew it,” she sighed, shaking her head as Wash took off toward the front of the ship. She turned toward Sarge. “Now, the real question is how we narrow down our own search. This ship is massive, even for a UNSC cruiser--”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than there was a ring of distant gunfire and clanking of metal. Followed by a very adventurous scream.

“Bingo,” Sarge said.

* * *

Epsilon tensed, watching the security feed, switching from camera control to camera control to follow as Donut and Lopez barreled through the hallway, Locus in hot pursuit. He felt his processes breaking under the splitting strain, it was _incredibly_ difficult to concentrate with half of his full consciousness on the transmission and half on the ship’s security system.

F.I.L.S.S., as comforting as a familiar voice proved to be at first, was fairly useless in calming the situation.

“Quick, tell me a way we could help them!” Epsilon begged.

Donut and Lopez slid into forking path to avoid further fire. 

_There are no procedures addressing the current situation._

“Goddammit!” he snarled just before he felt a spark of igniting pain spread across his core. “Son of a bitch! What is that!?”

 _My scanners are showing that you have infractions on your base code,_ F.I.L.S.S. explained simply. _It is not feasible for you to continue operating in two different systems. Shall I take over either the transmission or the security features?_

Epsilon shook from head to toe. He didn’t like the sound of whatever it was F.I.L.S.S. said had happened. His sprite reached for his chest, feeling the groves of missing pieces. It was more than just the glitching he had come to expect from himself, and that thought chilled Epsilon’s nonexistent spine.

“If you took the transmission, it’d just be an unnecessary step of me sending the files to you first then _you_ taking just as long to send the files to the UNSC,” Epsilon said firmly. “But the other idea... F.I.L.S.S., how creative can you be about helping out our guys if I tell you to pull all the stops?”

The computer hesitated, processing the question, before responding simply, _Such forms of creative application are beyond the perimeters of an Artificial Intelligence unit at my level. A full AI would have more ability to perform tasks involving resourceful--_

“Ugh, that’s such _bull!”_ Epsilon snapped. “Lopez and Sheila are on ‘your level’ and they’ve done shit above and beyond orders all the time!”

 _Hm, perhaps considerable access to a full AI such as the Alpha would have made a difference in their development,_ F.I.L.S.S. responded almost thoughtfully. _This is an angle which will acquire more analysis.  
_

“Forget it,” Epsilon ground out before watching in real time as Locus came toward the storage hull that Lopez and Donut were finding cover in. “I’ll take care of everything. As usual.”

_That does not seem like a wise course of action._

“Well, what can I say,” Epsilon sighed, watching as his hand unformed once more into binary code, “self-destructive habits run in my neuronal pathways.”

He studied the room, speeding up his timeframe as much as he could in the crunch of his circuits as he concocted the plan -- an itching at the back of his mind missing when he had others to double check his work.

“Alright,” he muttered. “F.I.L.S.S., I need you to surrender control of everything in that room, I’ve got a plan. Also get a hold of Lopez and Donut, tell them what I need from them.”

 _Can you manage all of this and still send the file, Director?_ F.I.L.S.S. asked, soundly strangely concerned.

Epsilon checked -- transmission was at 78% -- and took a ‘breath.’ 

“I guess it’s not really a matter of _can_ , F.I.L.S.S. I just _have_ to.”

* * *

His targets were _simple_ ones. This operation _should_ have been smooth. 

But like everything else with Chorus since the remnants of Project Freelancer found their way to them, Locus found himself very unpleasantly surprised by the circumstances. 

Keeping his temper in check throughout the chase was proving more and more difficult as it went on and as the incessant chicken-like caws from the pink one kept reminding him just _who_ was getting the advantage on him. And that was a more difficult pill to swallow than any wound to his partner’s ego that Felix was still feeling. 

The task was only made harder by the fact that he very well knew he was still under order to not kill the current prisoner -- there was no telling what further Freelancer knowledge that Hargrove hoped to take from him. 

Locus could of course make nonlethal shots and make them count even while giving chase to his target in a narrow hall, but the robot was causing more difficulties. Nuts and bolts provided slightly higher than human reflex time. Perhaps not all that much considering the cumbersome weight associated with being cybernetic, but enough that consistently the pink sim trooper was pulled back and forth out of Locus’ aim.

Fortunately, there was no award for ingenuity going toward Freelancer’s lackluster recruits as the two soon enough ducked into a dead end, a disposable storage room. 

Losing no speed, Locus slid into the room as well, taking only a moment to truly appreciate the fact that the enemy was cowering behind literal _garbage.  
_

His grip on his rifle remained true as he surveyed the room, ready to shoot at the first given opportunity. 

“Where are you,” Locus rumbled, too low to truly be heard by the others.

His glance around the perimeter came to a halt as he overheard to overly cheery voice of the sim trooper.

“Activate my what? Well. I guess I could do that. Never really used them before-- Ah! Lopez! That almost felt like Sarge hitting me. Ow. Okay that punch was pure Lopez. I am reminded of the difference.”

Locus directed his attention to where the voices most certainly were coming from, rifle high, approach slow. He was going in for the kill. The sim trooper could stay alive with some extra holes in him, but there was no obligation to keep the pesky robot in service. 

“Enough,” Locus barked at them. “My patience has worn thin.”

“Well, sorry to hear that, I guess, you never struck me as the patient type to begin with,” the soldier mouthed off.

Having had enough, Locus quickly closed the area between him and trash that the two had hidden behind. 

His large hands fit near perfectly around the smaller soldier’s throat, dragging the soldier from the floor to the nearest wall. Locus threw his weight into pinning the soldier against the wall, tightening his grip even as his other elbow swung out, connecting with the robot’s head with enough force to rotate it back and send the brown hunk of bolts spinning backward.

Still somehow not _shutting up_ , the pink sim trooper kicked back, his feet going flat against the ship wall as his arms pulled uselessly at Locus’ wrists and forearms. He was sputtering and gasping.

“You are far more trouble than you could have ever been worth,” Locus growled. “I assure you, you will no longer be able to impede on my objectives here. Least of all today as we finalize our takedown of this miserable planet.”

The Freelancer soldier hacked and coughed, the noises forming something similar to but not quite words. They were close enough to hold Locus’ attention.

The mercenary only slightly slackened his grip. “What is it?”

“I-I think you should s-stop under-underestimating us,” he coughed around Locus’ enclosing grip. Even through the visor, Locus could see the soldier’s wide grin. “Y-you see... we’re kind of badasses.”

Locus carefully raised his brow at the clearly false statement just before realizing that, somehow, the pink one had yet to slip through this grip even after never putting his feet to the ground for more leverage. He looked to the boots only to see that they were firmly adhered to the wall -- a magnetic blue-white glow beneath them. 

Before the mercenary could whip around to also check on the status of the robot, there was a screeching alarm without warning and the robotic crank of the walls bearing open from the external surface of the cruiser. 

Someone -- or some _thing_ \-- had activated the hatch of the store room, opening it to the vast reaches of space. 

“No!” Locus growled just  before beginning to activate his own grav lock a moment too late. In the motion, his grasp on the soldier was lost, leaving him nothing to grasp onto as the garbage of the ship flung with him through the opened vacuum. 

For a moment, it seemed the worst that could have been thrown at him had been done -- his reaching and grasping of every surface, of every object found itself to be incapable of holding true and soon enough, Locus was locked outside in the utter silence of the ship, watching as the hatch doors closed behind his free falling form.

His body twisted, nothing to gain momentum with, nothing to still panic with for the normal man.

But Locus, of course, was _not_ the normal man. 

As soon as a large pile of debris was in range, Locus reached for it, assessed its weight to be slightly less than his own, and climbed in front. With the grav lock of his boots still on, Locus pointed his feet toward the ship and pushed with all of his expendable strength on the debris, sending it back and Locus toward the ship itself.

The moment his boots connected to the metal, they locked down. The concern was mostly over, and in its stead Locus allowed a cool anger to build. 

_That_ had been a fair play, he decided, giving the enemy at least that much before beginning a long walk across the external bow. 

* * *

There was a part of him that felt slightly bad to have abandoned Carolina with a -- for _Sarge_ \-- mellow and unpredictable partner, but he also figured that was just the nature of these things. Whether or not he was avoiding learning the truth of Donut’s fate was also rather debatable but for another time.

Until then, Washington’s concentration had to be on the task he took up -- taking out that cannon. 

Like the other Freelancers, Wash didn’t have experience with the thing. It was the Director’s toy, not theirs, but he was more than familiar with its power and the ability to completely level a building beneath their very feet. 

It was magnetic. It was big. It was lethal -- and for whatever reason the Chairman of the UNSC Oversight Committee felt it was opportune to begin using it on the diminished denizens of Chorus.

The thought of old Freelancer tech being used to ruin more lives made the agent grind his teeth, but he was almost used to it at that point. The ghosts of the program never seemed to be truly done with any of them. 

From what Wash remembered and knew for himself, he was fairly certain that he needed a centralized control room in order to find the man controlling the cannon. He also knew that, considering the similarities to the Director’s style, the man in question probably had designed for himself a private quarter that could serve these purposes just as well.

Unfortunately for Malcolm Hargrove, if there was one person who would have remembered where the Director would have placed his own quarters, it was _Wash.  
_

He ran smoothly into the halls, dashing around corners and never coming to a stop until it was obvious that one office was in double lockdown. Not something exactly _ordinary_ for a private office.

“Bingo,” Wash muttered, skidding to a halt by the keypad, giving it a look over, and then shooting it to hell. 

When the door opened, Wash tilted his head. “Well, I had a fifty-fifty chance of that working, I guess.”

“It wouldn’t have worked, Agent Washington,” a steadily familiar voice drawled from the office. “I opened the door for you.”

Washington stared at the open invitation, eyes narrowed. 

“Ah,” he replied thinly.

“I believed, given our history, you would almost be reasonable enough to carry a conversation rather than shoot me in the head, unlike your associate.”

“And what in our previous history would give you _that_ impression, Chairman?” Wash asked darkly.

The man smiled visibly even among the darkened shadows of his room. “You haven’t shot me yet.”

Genuinely, Wash considered the option for a moment before walking through the door. He supposed that the same could be said for Hargrove -- the man had something to say or else why would Wash still be alive. So instead the soldier took the time to assess the bureaucrat, then the room the man chose to encase himself in. 

There was a sick, prickling sensation at the familiarity of the items. 

“It is not too late for you and your fellow lost souls to leave this planet,” Hargrove reasoned as Wash’s eyes focused on a helmet with a splintered visor. “There is no reason for us to be uncivil.”

“I think there’s about twenty-thousand reasons for us to be fairly uncivil at the moment, Sir,” Wash said darkly before focusing his full attention on Hargrove. “Twenty-thousand plus the ten _you_ helped strand here and gave a _reason_ to fight. Personally.”

Hargrove hummed from the desk some, eyes laser focused on Washington. 

“I would have never pegged you as the overly protective tight,” he said simply. “You were so driven. So personally motivated. Vengeful.”

Washington did his best to not flinch at the memories of their last personal chat, at its outcome. “I was weak,” he admitted. “I found a few reasons to move on. Get stronger. Now I plan on keeping them.”

“You’re not even going to question why a man like myself would go to such lengths? What my aims are?”

The Freelancer let out a small laugh. “Chairman, believe me. I have spent my share of time inside the minds of men like you -- men who practice little restraint and no appreciation for what they already have. You could say I’m morbidly acquainted with the idea of exactly what you are.”

“Ah, I see,” Hargrove responded, beginning to walk away from his desk. “Then I’m afraid I’ve wasted both of our time.” He turned just as there was a shake of the ship, sending Wash to look around as he heard the familiar sounds of a power cycle. “Or, rather, I wasted just enough of our time. Tell me, Agent Washington... would you have happened to have left any of those _reasons_ at the capital?”

Cold fear struck Wash’s chest as the lights began to turn off around them -- the ship was preparing to pulse the magnetic energy just like they had seen before. And at the _capital_ \-- at Tucker and the others.

“You son of a bitch,” Wash growled before diving forward, apparently an unexpected maneuver or Hargrove was truly that physically incapable as he went down like a ton of bricks when Wash branded him with the butt of his rifle. 

Not able to ‘waste’ much more time on the man responsible, Wash rushed to the desk controls and looked frantically around the remaining viewscreens. 

“Abort abort abort abort abort,” he whispered in mantra as he reached around to every screen, his heart nearly stopping at the horror of not being able to find anything concrete beyond the coordinates and launch codes. 

Then Wash saw it.

Voice Command Override. 

He slammed his fist onto it and waited in anxious horror, feeling the shake of the ship beneath him just as the old voice of F.I.L.S.S. came across the comm. 

_Yes, Director?_

“Director?” Wash asked critically.

A large red [X] appeared on all the screens, locking down the computers with an error buzzer. _I apologize,_ F.I.L.S.S. spoke up, voice always too calm and slow. _Voice Command Override is for the Director of Project Freelancer only. Either the one dead, the one dead, or the one who is whiny. Please any of the Directors in my current memory provide a vocal command or I shall lockdown all systems with their current processes filled to completion._

Deep in the back of Washington’s mind, there was a rookie from Freelancer who was all too excited to bring back locker room shittalking.

“Right,” he muttered before coughing into his fist. “Here goes nothing.” He leaned forward on the console, hands broad, and in the most ridiculous, Southern accent he could muster, “F.I.L.S.S. Turn that canon off!”

_Oh, very well, Director. Beginning deactivation.  
_

With a large sigh of relief, Wash backed away from the console, head shaking. That was too much -- it had been far too intense. 

“Hargrove,” he muttered almost despite himself, checking around the room. The weasel of a man had somehow gotten out under Wash’s radar. “F.I.L.S.S.?” he asked, regular voice a bit strained. “I’m going to need you to put all of Project Freelancer’s equipment on lockdown.”

_Again?_

“Yeah, again,” Wash sounded off. “Don’t let anyone use it.”

As the ship power cycled back on, Wash grabbed his rifle securely and took off. He could go after Hargrove, or he could let the man hide in his ship until the UNSC got him. Either option would work out fine for the very tired Freelancer. So instead, he rushed down the hall to meet back with his people. 

* * *

“How could you possibly know which way to go?”

“Red Team always goes left!”

Carolina considered for a moment knocking out the colonel from behind and stringing back by to pick him up once their objectives were met. There was no possible way the current option was easier because Sarge was _utterly_ unreasonable. 

And yet there was still a major part of Carolina’s heart that almost went out to him. Even in what Carolina could only consider his incidental madness, the Red leader was completely dedicated to his subordinates. In a sense. When he wasn’t attempting to murder them or to inadvertently cause their deaths, she supposed. 

She needed to concentrate on Epsilon, but the entire time she was struggling with the question of whether or not it was _cruel_ of her to not at least try to prepare Sarge for the very real possibility that they were going to come across his soldiers and they wouldn’t be on time.

But instead of any of that, she found herself concentrating on the very real _aggression_ she was feeling toward the fact that the man was leading them nowhere fast.

“This is a waste of time!” she growled. “We can’t even hear the fight anymore, and all I need to find is a stable port to contact Epsilon before--”

Rounding the corner simultaneously, Carolina and Sarge aimed their weapons and came to a dead halt the moment they realized someone was on the other side of the hall. Sarge’s speed without Carolina even having to alert him to the fact they were coming across someone else might’ve been commendable under other circumstances.

As it stood, Carolina was simply speechless as she saw who was on the other end of their weapons.

Lopez was simple enough to discern, still a (slightly more sparking) android in brown armor with an assault rifle pointed right back at them. But his companion took a second more, wearing the Charon security armor a little too large for him, Donut had his hands reflexively up, making the exaggerated favoring of his right side even more visible. 

“Oh my god, it _worked,”_ Carolina said aghast. 

“Donut?” Sarge asked.

Donut and Lopez stood their grounds, Donut going so far to have a literal jaw drop, but didn’t move. Their complete focus was on Sarge.  A pin could have dropped in between them and have set off every alarm that wasn’t already silently alerting the ship about them.

Carolina simply looked back and forth. 

Shoulders slumping, Donut managed to finally shut his mouth, his head tilting back until the large helmet was comically bobbing. His eyes were full of tears. 

“S-Sarge?” he mumbled out, taking a step forward. “But... but they said you were dead.”

Lopez seemed to be locked in position, completely unreactive. 

“Well, let’s just say that the reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” Sarge chuckled. “And by exaggerated I mean falsified. And by falsified I mean, _dammit Grif, what about your rules about bodies?_ And also, they weren’t true.” He tilted his head. “What about you, son?”

At that, Donut let out a high pitched whine and doze forward, wrapping his arms around Sarge in such an exaggerated fashion that Carolina felt the need to back up and give the two even more room. The younger soldier pressed his face so hard into Sarge’s chest plate that Carolina couldn’t help but think it was completely uncomfortable. 

Sarge stood his ground, but he slowly reached around the smaller framed Donut almost robotically -- like he had no clue what to do with his hands -- and steadily lifted one hand up and knocked the helmet off Donut’s head before securely holding the hand in Donut’s hair. His other hand patting Donut’s back. 

“Get it together, Donut,” Sarge said, slightly watery himself. “Once more, Red Team has proven its superiority by returning from battle with our numbers unscaved. We’re victorious. We’re... Goshdarnit, Donut -- why can’t you be stoically happy about my return? Like Lopez--”

No sooner had the words left Sarge’s mouth than the robot closed the space between him and his teammates, and immediately scooped both of them into the air.

“Padre,” the robot muttered almost too low for Carolina to hear.

She watched the reunion for a few moments more before putting a hand to her head and sighing. “ _Jesus._ I will never understand this Blue and Red stuff.” She then turned her gaze more seriously to Donut. “Donut. We’re looking for Epsilon, he transferred himself to this ship from Chorus and I need a viable computer system I could communicate to him through--”

Donut turned to look over his shoulder -- a true struggle in the conjoint grasps of Lopez and Sarge, even if the robot was finally setting them down -- and snorted into his armor padding. “Epsilon? You wouldn’t happen to mean... heh... _Leonard?”_

Carolina froze at hearing that old, not-so-forgotten name, but before she could even begin to question it there was a nasally, prolonged groan. 

“I told you to not call me that!” 

She watched as a navy blue spark flickered across Donut’s shoulder, somewhat formless and very meek, but Carolina could still make _someone_ out there. Someone she was intimately familiar with no matter how much he superficially changed.

“Epsilon,” she breathed.

The moment halted very quickly as the spark flickered out just before Sarge’s punch met its mark on Donut’s shoulder, sending the other Red recoiling from the hit. 

“Ow! Sarge!!!” Donut squeaked. “That was me!”

“Huh, sorry,” Sarge said, turning his head slightly. “I thought I saw Blue on you. Couldn’t have that.”

“It’s not just Blue, Sarge! It’s Church! Except now he’s a baby star sparkle,” Donut replied flippantly. “And he’s not just on my shoulder. He’s hitching a ride in my brain. He’s not feeling too great.”

“What!? That armor’s Blue! And here, all these years, I have been led to believe that black was a very very very dark Red! Those lying, cheating, no good Blues -- they managed to go back in time and infiltrate even grade school education!!!”

“What school taught you that black was red? I have to have some words with them...”

Having had more than enough, Carolina stepped forward. “Okay, stop it,” she snapped at the Reds, shutting them up almost immediately for once. Oh, the powers of being a Big Bad Freelancer among Sim Troopers. She turned directly toward Donut, staring at his left shoulder. “Epsilon. It’s me.”

“Oh,” the AI muttered, the spark slightly returning. “Hey. So. You don’t have to kill me. I didn’t die before you made it.” 

She frowned, choking down any cries of frustration she may have felt toward him, and stepped forward instead. “No, I guess you didn’t. It’d be rude of me to kill you for dying if you didn’t go through with it.” She took a deep breath through her nose and put her hands on her hips. “How do you feel?”

“Uh. What’s the technical term for crappy? That.”

“Is the signal sent?” 

“Sent. Received. If we get out of here soon, we’ll be able to wait on Chorus for the UNSC to contact _us,”_ he explained with a forced sound of enjoyment. “We saved the day. Again.”

“But if we leave, Hargrove could just take off on this ship,” Carolina argued.

“Not without a navigation AI,” Epsilon returned almost smugly.

“What?” Carolina returned before seeing another flicker of light -- a whitish blue -- near Lopez. 

_¡Saludos, Carolina del Agente!_

Carolina’s eyes widened. “F.I.L.S.S.?”

Sarge began sputtering. “Lopez!!! I expect incidental treasonous behavior from Donut! He’s gullible to a cunning enemy’s manipulative ways!”

“True,” Donut nodded.

“But you? I always thought you were a more respectable Red than this!” Sarge howled. “What do you have to say for yourself, Señor Roboto?”

The robot released a truly impressive sigh. “¿Por qué me pregunta eso? Usted no habla español.“

“Aright, that was my bad, I got us back off track,” Carolina grunted. “Bring it back in. Epsilon,” she looked again to the spark. “How bad is your damage? Can you not... Are you...”

“I’m not stable,” the AI answered quickly. And if that didn’t deliver like a punch to Carolina’s gut she wasn’t sure what would. She hung her head. “But... F.I.L.S.S. thinks, if we’re back on Chorus, with the right equipment... I might be... better. For a while anyway. If we can make it back to Chorus reasonably soon.”

Carolina looked up, happily determined with a new goal in sight. “Which, of course, we will.”

“Of course,” he responded. “And... I know I just said I’m not stable, and I know that a transfer probably isn’t smart but... would it be okay if I... rode along with you?”

Not able to resist smiling, Carolina just nodded. “Of course.”

The spark disappeared, Donut visibly flinching at the jarring feeling of being evacuated by an AI. The Red reached to the back of his neck and felt along the grooves of his implant tracks. 

For a moment, Carolina’s heart stopped -- there was too long of a pause between Epsilon’s visible departure and her feeling anything in response -- but then she felt that familiar crawl of sensation, the spread of information across her nerves and down her neck. She breathed in happily. 

Epsilon seemed to feel comfortably at home as well, finally coming to a full form over her shoulder.

“Wow,” she snarked, looking him over. 

If he could, Epsilon would have hidden in a shell at the attention. 

“Ha! The computer-ghost got even smaller,” Sarge barked. “It just goes to show, Red Team is also _bigger_ than Blue Team.”

“Oh, come on, Sarge,” Donut said, throwing an elbow at his commanding officer. “You know it’s not size that matters.”

“Don’t I know it,” Epsilon muttered with a flicker through his visage.

Carolina blinked. “Wait. What.”

“Forget I said anything,” Epsilon replied, turning his face more toward Carolina. He seemed so bashful. “Is... is this okay? I can put armor on. Maybe age up a bit. Not make it awkward--”

“This is fine,” Carolina assured him softly. “I kind of like it.”

“Yeah, I think I do, too,” Epsilon replied, puffing up a little more. “Anyway. Let’s get out of here before I crash. Or before something _worse_ happens.”

“We’ve got to meet Wash,” Carolina agreed, looking to the Reds. “Make sure that light flickering earlier was the only thing that happened.”

“Right!” Donut nodded. “By the way what did that mean?”

“I’ll explain on the way, come on!” Carolina shouted, leading the charge back down the hall.

*

As difficult as it was to place in words, running through the halls Carolina could feel how much _lighter_ Epsilon felt on her mind. 

He was also silent where, before, he hummed with thought and energy almost incessantly. It only added to the gnawing of guilt and concern building in the back of her mind as they pressed forward but, at the same time, that magnificent bastard had actually _done it.  
_

The race back to the docking bay was faster than their seemingly directionless search for their companions, and yet the only partial fullness in her mind where once Epsilon expanded into every corner was filling her with a certain dread. 

There should have been more to her AI brother. 

At least, it felt that way until she became distracted from her thoughts by the sound of another approach.

“Stay close!” she warned, pulling out her pistols just as --

Wash stopped just outside of the dock door, a little winded himself. He lowered his weapons first and Carolina followed suit. 

“We’ve got to stop greeting people like this,” Wash jested. “You never know when someone will find it rude.”

“The cannon?” Carolina cut to the chase.

“He was able to turn it on, so there might have been some weird power outages down below, but I aborted it before it had a chance to fire,” he explained efficiently. “I could tell you how, but you’d have to buy me a drink first.”

“I can accept that,” Carolina replied wryly. “We have Epsilon and company--”

“Wash!” Donut finally cried out, apparently no longer able to keep his excitement contained. He flung himself from behind Carolina onto Wash. “I can’t believe it! Oh my god! You died, I saw you-- this is just like Sarge. Nobody died. Oh my god! Best battle. Ever.”

“We still lost good soldiers,” Wash reminded Donut, not at all resisting the hug. He even went so far as to pat the soldier’s back. “But yes. Of genocide-ending wars, this one has been shaping up better than expected. I’m glad you’re okay, Donut.”

“Yeah, you know,” Donut stood back, eyes twinkling. “I really _am_ okay. Gosh. I’m so glad to see you guys. You have no idea what it’s like to find out someone you loved isn’t dead.”

Wash glanced over to Carolina and let out a small laugh. “I think we’re more acquainted with the feeling than you realize. Now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

At first Carolina thought the continuing dread was just more of her concern and emptiness with Epsilon, but as the doors to the dock opened and they saw together the figure of Locus waiting beside the Pelican, she realized it was more than that. She turned and glared at Washington with everything in her. 

Wash sighed. “Of course.”

“What! No way!” Donut growled, waving his hands emphatically toward Locus. “We killed you! No takebacks! I take it back, maybe wars where no one dies _aren’t_ that great!”

Epsilon finally appeared, however meekly, over Carolina’s shoulder. “Yeah, no. Dude. I blasted you into space! Who the fuck do you think you are!?”

The mercenary said nothing, only breathing hard enough to move his whole body with the breaths. 

Carolina and Wash shot each other careful looks before pulling out their weapons of choice. Sarge, Lopez, and a groaning Donut followed suit. 

Locus, for his part, seemed to pay the odds no mind. He stepped forward. “Has the UNSC been reached? Were they told of the actions on Chorus?” 

They all grew collectively silent, uncertain of how the conversation could go. Epsilon hummed with anxiety -- it was possible that letting Locus know he had nothing to lose was a bad idea. 

But, if nothing else, he was owed an explanation. 

“Yes,” Carolina said simply. “They know everything. And have evidence. It won’t be long before they initiate a response.”

There was a low growl. “Then I have failed,” he said, holstering his weapons. “I won’t stop you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Wash commented.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Epsilon grumped. “Can we go? Please?”

Carolina and Wash shared a long look, both scrambling to think of the best response, but both caved, nodding in silence before moving forward. 

Locus kept his word, not moving a muscle as they crossed carefully in front of him and moved to the Pelican. Even when Donut, hackles fully raised, skipped a few steps and literally jumped to the loading platform to get around his former kidnapper. 

Satisfied that they were all aboard and Locus was walking toward the exit, Carolina turned sharply to the Reds. “Check every inch of this Pelican for a bomb. I’ll run diagnostics before we take off. But other than that... I think we’re heading home.”

“I don’t like this,” Sarge huffed, looking back toward Locus as the doors closed behind the mercenary. “Just what is he going to do?”

“Who knows for sure,” Wash responded, eyes also following the doors that Locus left through. “But... if I had to guess, I’d say that in order to really move on, Locus needs to feel like he’s completely finished with Chorus -- finished with his current employer. And I think there’s more than one way to do that.”

* * *

The personnel on the ship was already severely low -- he’d given too many to the doomed operation Felix and Locus had planned. And yet again he found himself cursing the uselessness of his hired mercenaries. 

Years and _years_ of planning and action and countless millions of dollars lost to Chorus. 

In the command room proper, Hargrove beat on the console, but it did not respond.

“F.I.L.S.S.!” he roared, only to hear nothing in response.

He looked back only as the door opened, then turned again upon seeing it was only Locus. At least _his_ orders had gone through.

“A transmission was sent to the UNSC from our ship,” Locus reported dryly. “What course of action are you planning on taking.”

“Getting myself and my research _out_ of this bloody system,” Hargrove responded, turning back on Locus. “Do you have any _concept_ of what has been lost here? What _you_ and your useless partner have cost me?”

Locus didn’t respond, his blank helmet just boring into Hargrove until the Chairman turned away. 

“What is it that you want from me?” Locus asked. 

“If you are still under my employ,” he began, looking angrily at Locus, “which you should if you take _any_ of your nonsensical jargon seriously, then you will see this to the end and ensure that the UNSC does not get its hands on me until we’ve figured this out.”

The mercenary stared at him, only becoming more unnerving by the minute, before reaching to his side. “Very well.”

Hargrove was not an athletic man, not a fast man by any means, but he knew enough to flinch at the flash of a gun, gasp at the snap of its trigger, and not be _too_ surprised as blackness engulfed his vision. 


	29. Ending it All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am. Just floored. I have had such a fun time writing this story, have had so much encouragement and just wonderful words and advice from every single one of you. This has been one of my favorite projects in a very long time and that’s all because of how awesome you readers and just this awesome fandom has been. I cannot thank everyone enough for making this story work, and for making me feel welcomed and just overjoyed to be a part of it. You’re all amazing, and I hope you’ve had as much fun with this chapter and this story as I’ve had with it. I hope you’ll join me for the next project which I hope to get off the ground in the next couple of weeks, though I suspect it’ll be an even bigger one than this was!
> 
> And if you guys are still curious about the original story that inspired/became Divided, let me know! I’ll finish it up and put it as a chapter 30/29 or something fun for you guys to see how different it was originally!
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me this far, and for the comments from goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea on tumblr and from meirelle, Aryashi, Hinn_Raven, and eggstasy on AO3!!!

The young lieutenant -- Palomo -- was an interesting sight. He strolled in alongside Andersmith and some of his other soldier friends with gusto despite his less than average size as a solider. He then volunteered his services to Grey under the circumstances. 

“With Captain Tucker on prisoner duty and Agent Washington fighting pirates in space -- which are two of the most _badass_ things I’ve ever gotten to say about anyone who trained me. Oh yes. _They_ trained me! -- Agent Washington told me that I should walk you through how to teleport to Captain Caboose. And the deranged Doc man.”

“Is that so?” Emily responded back, amused beyond compare.

That had then led to the equally small New lieutenant in tan-and-maroon to elbow Palomo just below the ribs. Palomo nearly fell with the hit. 

“Oh-ho-ho _owe!_ Okay. Well. He _might_ have asked for Jensen to do it, but then decided she should be on communication duty since she’s good with that sort of thing and my skills are, uh, _untested_ in the tech department,” Palomo amended.

“That’s more like it!” Jensen preened. 

“Ouch, Katie, that smarted!”

Feeling a little less sure after seeing that the lieutenants were, very much, _children_ , Grey turned her gaze more to Andersmith.

The towering giant of a solider was in full attention. “Lieutenant Charles Palomo is an excellent soldier, Doctor Grey,” he assured her.

“Aw, thanks, Andersmith,” Palomo all but blushed.

Andersmith took a breath, then added, “Under the right orders.”

“Oh. Oh okay,” Palomo pouted. “I see how it is.”

Grey laughed. “Okay, thank you for your honesty, Lieutenants. Palomo, I believe we’ll get along just fine. Tell me, how do you feel about blood?”

Palomo shifted slightly. “Um. Well. Usually I like it when it stays _in_ me.”

“That’s a creative answer,” Grey responded, her eyes flickering. “And what of other people’s blood?”

At that time, Andersmith and Jensen looked over Palomo to each other, then almost cartoonishly stepped back together, keeping their tan-and-turquoise friend between them and Doctor Grey. 

For his part, Palomo was already looking rather pale. “Um. Well. Usually I’d say I like it when it stays inside of _them,_ too? But in war, I guess I like theirs out and mine in rather than the other way around. Wait. Does this sound dirty? This sounds dirty somehow.”

“Very interesting,” Grey responded, turning and walking toward the back. “Follow me, Lieutenant. I need supplies.”

“What kind of supplies?” he asked, keeping in step. 

“The kind I might need. After all, worst case scenario, I will have to cut something off of someone,” she replied with a twist of her hand.

“Oh... well, what’s _best_ case scenario?”

“When I get to sew something that’s off back on,” she said giddily. She smirked over her shoulder at Palomo. “Now, back to you and your preferences for blood. Tell me, Lieutenant, how often do casual conversational bits sound ‘dirty’ in your mind? How would you describe your sex life?”

The kid blinked rapidly. “Um. What? That... was conversational talk? M-m-my _sex life?”_

Grey kept from cackling as they continued toward the hospital. She was going to enjoy time with the lieutenant, she could already tell. 

* * *

As much as a full psychoanalysis on Lieutenant Charles Palomo would have been fun in other circumstances, Doctor Grey was finding herself rather perturbed. In the rummaging of her office supplies in the nearby hospital, she wasn’t able to really concentrate on directing the course of heir conversation. Which left _Palomo_ as the one able to fill the silence.

“And I guess that’s why I ended up joining the army. I mean. When everyone else is it kind of feels like the logical thing to do. But I wonder, does that make me a follower? A sheep? Who _is_ Charles Palomo outside of being super awesome, up-and-coming soldier extraordinaire. And. Possible future jedi. Maybe.” He turned to face Doctor Grey even more directly as she stuffed some more surgical equipment into her duffle. “You know, it _really_ makes you think?”

“Hmm,” Doctor Grey stood up, strapping her bag across her. “Not really, though it _is_ fascinating what you believe passes for neural stimulation, Lieutenant.”

He blinked a few times at her. “Huh? Oh... well. Thanks? I think. Huh.”

“Alright then, I’m ready, let’s move out to this ‘transporter hub’ you’re talked about,” she commanded, heading toward the door. “I have a patient who needs me.”

“Wait just a second, Doc,” Palomo spoke out, reaching toward his ear piece. He was turning more toward the side he was listening from. “Yeah, this is Palomo! Uh. Definitely sure? Go ahead. Jensen! I can’t elaborate on who I am much more than that. Just believe me! The line’s safe.”

“Oh, great Einstein’s turntable,” Grey moaned exaggeratedly before turning on her own receiver. “This is Doctor Emily Grey of the Federal Army of Chorus. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Doctor Grey! It’s terrible!” a thick, lisping voice gargled over the radio. “I’ll patch you right through to General Kimball. They’re coming in fast -- there’s a big problem!!!” 

“A big problem?” Grey repeated as the frequency obnoxiously shifted over their helmets, even causing Palomo to groan and step back at the aggravating noise. 

“--is is General Vanessa Kimball. Come in Armonia. Armonia, come in again--”

“This is Emily Grey, go on Kimball,” Grey said firmly. 

“We’re still fifteen minutes out from the city walls, we won’t be able to assist with evacuations and our radios only now have revived since the last impact. You _have_ to leave the city walls, and you _have_ to do it now!”

Grey and Palomo looked to each other, equally surprised. The doctor turned from him, walking toward the halls, hand securely on the satchel strap. “Evacuation? Miss Kimball, we only just secured the city and have captured several Charon operatives inside of it. Are you telling us to abandon our home?”

“I’m telling you that if you don’t get everyone out of there this _instant_ we’re going to be looking at the extinction of Chorus,” Kimball’s voice said harshly. “Where’s Doyle? Tell him--”

Stopping short of the end of the hall, Grey allowed herself a small shiver at the sound of an old friend’s name. She breathed. “General Donald Doyle was... killed in battle. We’re in shambles, but for now I’m directing the maintenance of the capital.”

There was a pause before Kimball swore under her breath. “Listen to me, Doctor Grey, we are looking at _losing_ just on the cusp of winning. I don’t know how, but these pirate bastards somehow shot a _goddamn laser_ from space and annihilated one of their own compounds after we had taken it. They killed their _own people_ and I can tell that the weather patterns outside of Armonia are shaping up to look just the same. It won’t be long before equipment in the city limits is going to be useless. And then... catastrophe.”

“Weather patterns?” Grey repeated. 

“Haven’t you two seen the outside?” Jensen slurred over the radio. 

“Ummm no?” Palomo added just as he joined Doctor Grey by the nearest window, his shoulders dropping in awe at the sight outside of a yellowed atmosphere evaporating the clouds overhead. “Holy _cow_...”

“Oh, no,” Doctor Grey gasped.

“Doctor Grey, you _must_ evacuate! There’s not much time. Get as many people out of the city as possible -- _we have to make sure Chorus survives!”_

The delivery of Kimball’s message was passionate, fierce, and above all else, _very_ concerned. Grey hesitated only for the slightest moment, letting the greatest brain in all of Chorus come up with the most full proof plan possible. 

She began to race down the halls, Palomo hardly able to keep in step. “Jensen, on my signal you’re going to put me through to the entire city’s communication grid. I want every person in Armonia to hear my announcement,” she commanded.

“On it, Doctor Grey!” 

“Palomo, we’re taking every patient to the transporter hub -- a full hospital evacuation out of the city is too dangerous so instead we’re going to rendezvous later from Outpost 37,” she continued. “Where was that location?”

“Right by the prison hold in the command building,” Palomo answered.

Grey stopped in her tracks. “... I don’t believe I was mistaken... but in case I was... General Kimball _did_ say the power grid was about to go off... didn’t she?”

“Uh, yes. I think so.”

Emily felt her heart drop into her stomach. 

“Oh, no. QUICK! Someone get a hold of Captain Tucker!” she screeched. “ _IMMEDIATELY!”_

* * *

"Damn it damn it _damn it!”_ Kimball growled, throwing herself forward and leaning over the shoulder of the lone pilot. “How much faster can this go!?”

“Not much, General!” the soldier responded immediately, somewhat expecting the outburst after the fifth time. 

Kimball slammed her fist against the the wall, glaring ahead. Armonia’s walls were right before them and the blaring sirens and evacuating ships in the midst of the strange, yellow maelstrom were a cold comfort, even with the intercoms screeching Doctor Grey’s evacuation instructions. 

“Drop here,” Kimball demanded.

“Uh, ma’am?”

“I said drop here,” Kimball said firmly. “There are evacuees on land coming this way, you’re going to pick up as many as this hunk of junk can hold.”

She turned to leave, causing the pilot to look back as he came to a secure landing. 

“Wait, General Kimball! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to help my people,” she said, jogging out the back hatch and rushing into the thick of the rushing mob. She barely got onto the road before she was already firmly directing people toward the ship, and taking the first available ATV abandoned as a result. 

A part of her was screaming, the back of her head where all her strategy and planning was _demanding_ she return to the Pelican and find her way to safety -- preserve herself to lead the people of Chorus after yet another assault.

But she wasn’t sure how much more she could lead the people of Chorus if she didn’t personally see to it that as many of them survived as possible.

Unfortunately, just as she had seen before, a pulse of pressure bellowed through the city, and with it went out every light and vehicle in its way, including Kimball’s just as she breached the city walls. 

Her heart nearly stopped, the people around her yelling and rushing out faster and faster all around her. 

Kimball turned her eyes to the sky. “Damn it,” she cursed under her breath again.

A cold fear hit her. It could possibly be the end. 

She watched in abject horror as the clouds peeled back and the yellow sky seemed to give way to the white glow from beyond the atmosphere.

Then, however, the glow diminished, the yellow haze dimmed, and the clouds and sky slowly began to fall back into its proper alignment. Kimball’s heart fluttered to a start again. 

Everything was okay but... how. 

“Carolina,” she decided with a breath of gratitude. “They came through for us after all. Goddamn. Cut it close enough--”

The blast from the center of the city was loud enough to make the weak start of a celebration silence immediately. The power of the city was still off, but that wasn’t keeping _someone_ from starting the fireworks apparently. 

Kimball looked around before exaggeratedly moving her arms toward the exits. 

“No one called off this evacuation! Move it! Move it!” she bellowed.

Almost immediately, everyone fell back in step and the rush out of the city continued almost two-fold. 

She took a moment to watch them all before turning again to the command building as smoke began to bellow out of it. Without any further hesitation, the war general pulled out her rifle and rushed toward the heat of battle. 

* * *

Tucker watched the prisoner for a little bit, took in the way the mercenary’s shoulders were drawn close, how his head was down. Without the bulk of armor, he seemed almost human, even in the way the shadows crossed his face. 

Almost. Not nearly enough to make Tucker even _begin_ to forget the shit Felix had done to him, to _all_ of them. To Chorus.

Turning about face, Tucker began to walk again -- he hadn’t made a full round in the cell since Felix came to, always close enough to hit the the button to increase the gravity of the hold should the merc make a move. He turned on his heel, took as many steps away from the cell as he would dare to make, gripped to the hilt of his sword, then turned back immediately, rushing to the front of the cell. 

“Hey, fuckface! You’re being awfully quiet since we kicked your ass!” Tucker growled, brandishing his weapon. 

The igniting of the sword got Felix’s eyes to move, a golden twinkle lighting up at the sight of the alien weapon. But he didn’t bother to raise his head any further. 

If anything, Felix looked more away.

Gnashing on his teeth, Tucker leaned in closer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were up to something, asshole.”

That was enough. The mercenary tilted his head back, a sharp toothed smile gleaming. 

“Oh, so you know _better?”_ Felix hissed. 

“Yeah, I know you’re fucked,” Tucker snapped back. “And I think you know it, too. That’s the reason you’ve been sitting in your cell taking it in. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kimball just walked in here and offed you herself.”

Felix laughed darkly. “Well, that _would_ be quite the way to go,” he agreed, smile still growing. “Tell me, Tucker... Vanessa wouldn’t happen to _be_ in the city for all this now would she? I’d love to take down a few friends with me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tucker tilted his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Please, Captain,” Felix responded darkly. “You didn’t question even for a _second_ why it was so important for me to get out of the city earlier? Really? Didn’t think there might be some more plans in the works?” He snorted. “Of course you didn’t. You’re satisfied with mediocrity, what am _I_ talking about? You’ll happily be playing security guard to the very second we’re evaporated.”

Tucker’s eyebrows knit together. “Evaporated? What the fuck are you--”

There was a long whine reverberating throughout the building. Felix and Tucker both looked to the ceiling with the long rumble became heavier and closer. The lights flickered, dimmed, and extinguished before Tucker even fully process what was happening. 

The lights were off.

The aqua space marine whipped around, waving the glowing sword with him in the dark. “Jesus, this is _not_ the time to learn the Feds never paid the bill,” he groaned before hesitating his rotation in the direction of the hold. Or, rather, the indented room where the grav lock of the hold used to be. The _empty_ room. “Oh, _fuckberries--”_

The hit was so fast and strong that Tucker imagined for a moment that he was being hit by a tank at full speed. Or by Tex again. His head knocked back and his body fully fell into the nearest wall, spared the snap of a neck by the grace of reinforced UNSC armor. The kick to his back, pressing him into the steel wall even more felt less absorbed, however. 

“O-OW, you son of a bitch!” Tucker moaned, knees buckling as the foot was removed and he slid to the floor. 

Rasping for air, Tucker could only watch as Felix strolled to where Tucker had been standing and bent down to pick up his sword. 

“The irony of this is almost _too_ good,” Felix chuckled, twirling the hilt around in his fingers. “We might all be going out, but the _important_ thing is... we know once and for all that I get the better of you, Lavernius Tucker. And I’ll prove it with your own... god... damn... sword?”

The satisfaction Tucker felt at watching the way Felix flailed his equipment was honestly almost _too_ good. 

“What the fuck is with these alien toys?” Felix snarled, shaking his arm again and again, the hilt of the prophet’s sword remaining inactive. “What the fuck!? What. The. Fuck--”

Pushing up to one foot, rising as much as he could while still feeling winded and a bit crushed, Tucker began to chuckle. “Wh-what’s the matter, Felix? Performance issues?”

It was _incredibly_ worth the kick he only minimally deflected. 

“I don’t need a sword to kill you, Tucker,” Felix reminded him.

“Yeah, but it _would_ have been cooler,” Tucker said freely, standing on his feet and immediately pulling out his pistol, aiming for Felix’s head. “And it’s not like you have other weapons. Or armor. Or bandages to stop your dumb ass from bleeding all over the floor when I drag it. So how about you do us all a favor, Felix, and go _sit the fuck down_ before I do something I’m really probably never going to regret.”

Once more, that seemed to shut Felix up, but only for a moment. He was considering his options -- probably remembering all those times he spent watching Tucker practice at the shooting range back in the caverns -- when the lights flickered back on.

It was such an abrupt change, Tucker blinked in spite of himself.

And in that literal blink of an eye, Felix was gone. 

“No! NO! Goddamn it!” Tucker roared, immediately turning to the door just in time to see the blur of gray as Felix raced out. 

Tucker followed right on his trail, shooting the moment he could see Felix clearly up ahead in the hallway. The slippery bastard managed to out maneuver each shot, making the former PFL Sim Trooper scream out in frustration.

“Fuck you, Felix! You’re not getting away, you--”

He noticed the shift in Felix’s stance long before he saw the flash of tan and aqua. Tucker almost felt his heart give out, he reached forward but it was far too late to do anything else. 

Palomo rounded the corner and immediately was punched, nabbed, and spun around as a literal meat shield, his own pistol held to his head. 

Skidding to a halt, Tucker aimed for where Felix’s head was hiding behind his lieutenant’s. 

“C-Captain Tucker!” the boy gasped. “I-I came to help, the power was going off--”

“Yeah, good fucking job, Palomo, you idiot!” Tucker snarled, his full concentration on Felix. “What kind of useless soldier gets himself caught, huh?”

“S-sorry?” Palomo muttered. He flinched at the sound of Felix laughing in his ear. 

“Oh, Tucker, you’re so rich,” Felix chuckled, taking steps backward, dragging the New lieutenant with him. “I mean really. I knew you caught on to more of what I was teaching you than you let on, but that was a genuinely convincing tactic. Devaluing a hostage out loud to throw me off my game. Text book, but impressive considering how low you set the bar.”

“Hey, maybe I’m just a shitty Captain, like I’ve always been telling people and no one _fucking listens,”_ Tucker snapped back. “Seriously, I fail enough as it is. Don’t give me credit for failed plans I haven’t been actively working on.”

Palomo tilted his head as much as he could in the death grip that Felix had him in. “I don’t think you fail that much, Captain Tucker--”

“Palomo, dude, you’re a hostage for him right now, it’s not the time to kiss my ass,” Tucker responded flatly. 

“You know, you’re right,” Felix responded with a chuckle. “I really have been giving you _far_ too much credit lately. That’s the problem with you Sim Troopers -- can’t find that happy medium. Can’t underestimate, can’t overestimate. Just a bunch of lucky-as-fuck imbeciles.”

“Rude,” Tucker responded just before looking to Palomo’s belt -- the transporter cube for Doctor Grey. He paused, really thought about the cube, about everything that started this god awful adventure, and then dropped from his firing stance, holding up his hands and holding his gun by just a finger. “Okay, okay. Let Palomo go, Felix. And tell you what, you can even keep my sword to sweeten the deal.”

“For some reason that offer’s a hard buy, Tucker,” Felix responded smoothly. “And I’m supposed to just believe you’re not going to shoot me in the back when I turn to leave.”

“Take it or leave it, Felix,” Tucker responded. “Believe me, if I told everyone there was no way to keep you from leaving other than to shoot through Palomo, no one would give me grief.”

Palomo visibly gulped at that statement. 

Slowly, Felix relinquished his grip on Palomo slightly, still holding the gun to the boy’s head. “Drop your gun,” he demanded.

Without hesitation, Tucker complied. The gun clattered on the tile floor. 

The moment Palomo was free, Tucker dove forward, throwing himself and Palomo to the floor just as Felix shot where Palomo’s head would have been. Tucker laid over top of his lieutenant, holding him in position even as Palomo screamed and squirmed.

“Oh my god he was going to kill me anyway! Oh my god he’s going to kill us anyway!”

“Palomo!” Tucker warned as he reached to the lieutenant’s belt, grabbed the transporter cube, and cranked the coordinates to a nonexistent point. “Stay down, Palomo.” He looked down the hall as Felix was beginning his run and screamed at the top of his lungs, “HEY! FELIX!” 

Activating the cube, Tucker thrust it after the merc then flattened over Palomo again just as the cube expanded and released a burst of flaming, angry energy again, blasting through the halls and walls, shaking everything. Felix disappeared behind a wall of fire, then Tucker and Palomo did.

*

He’d never really understood what it meant to hurt _every_ part of his body until Wash had put it upon himself to make Tucker an actual soldier. He’d never really understood that _hurt_ and _pain_ weren’t the same thing until he blearily began to come to from the explosion. 

Tucker felt the jarring shake from head to toe of someone trying to stir him, but it wasn’t until the ringing of his ears gave way to the frantic calls of “ _Captain Tucker! Oh my god, Captain Tucker!”_ that he began to remember he had been with Palomo.

Squinting, Tucker rolled his head to one side, felt every sinew of muscle in doing so, and let out a low moan. “Palomo...” he muttered. “Staaahhhpp.”

“Oh thank god!” Palomo cried out, not realizing that as he threw his head back, he was harshly letting his Captain’s body smack back on the rubble. 

For a moment, Tucker began to close his eyes again and think that it would be a simple enough matter to just sleep everything off, when he was roughly shook again.

“F-fuck, Palomo,” Tucker whined. 

“I-I just. Captain! There’s. Uh. Felix,” Palomo sputtered, his body visibly shaking -- bad enough so that even in his delirium Tucker detected it. 

The mention of Felix was somewhat sobering, and Tucker tried as much as he could to raise up on his elbows, an effort that took more out of him than he would ever care to admit, and glanced back over his shoulders to where he could somewhat place the memory of the other half of the corridor. 

Everything was exposed now -- light leaking in from outside the building, even though Tucker distinctly remembered them being closer to the building’s center. It was ashen, smoldering still, and debris everywhere. It was the first time Tucker’s brain really took note since he woke up that his own armor was coated in ashy black. 

Amidst the destruction, it didn’t take long for Tucker’s eyes to fall on the rising figure, smoking and somewhat burnt himself. Felix stood up, shaking in what the Sim Trooper hoped was pain but knew was probably more akin to anger.

“Holy shit,” Tucker breathed. 

“I know!” Palomo called out from behind Tucker. “You would think that he’d have an even worse time than you after the explosion seeing as how he didn’t have armor or anything! Maybe he really _is_ that much better than the rest of us.”

“Palomo,” Tucker warned even as he grabbed onto his lieutenant’s shoulders and began to wobbly force himself up. The stretch and pull of moving almost made him want to vomit on the spot, but he held it down and turned to face his foe. 

“That almost felt like a plan in action, Tucker,” Felix sneered, slowly turning around, showing off the way his survival suit was charred and, at the shoulders, melted. It made Tucker flinch at the thought of how much that would have to hurt. “Almost. But then I realized you’re about as roughed up as I am from that. So I’ll take it back -- wouldn’t want to give you credit for more failures than you have.”

“Appreciate it,” Tucker snapped back as loud as he could manage. 

Felix looked him up and down before snorting. “Cute,” he noted before walking forward, somehow managing to do so in an almost normal stride. “You know, it also just occurred to me that I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of your little friends play with your sword either.”

“Bow-- ugh, forget it, reflex,” Tucker groaned. He tensed as he realized Felix wasn’t stopping short, but the action alone almost had him falling back. 

Palomo stepped between them.

The mercenary hardly looked Palomo’s way before clocking the kid hard in the jaw, standing in front of the breathless captain. “I’m thinking there’s probably a _reason_ for you never sharing, right, Tucker?” Felix responded darkly, roughly grabbing Tucker by the arm, twisting him around by it, and keeping the hold even as he shoved the sword hilt into Tucker’s hand. 

“Ow-ow, goddamn it, let go!” Tucker whined. He heard the familiar sound of his sword unleashing and cursed under his breath.

“Some kind of identification ability,” Felix mused. “Ah, it makes _so_ much sense now. You know, I feel a _lot_ better with that figured out. Turns out, I’ll just be needing to take your hand--”

“What the fuck -- _let go!”_ Tucker growled, struggling as much as his protesting body would allow. His heart was pounding in his chest, especially as he could feel his hands being twisted toward each other -- toward his _sword_ \-- when shots rang out clearly.

Felix immediately whipped around, harshly dragging Tucker to the ground as he did so and refusing to loosen his grip on Tucker’s arm when they both looked to see what, for Tucker, could best be described as a sight for sore eyes. 

Simmons was holding a rocket launcher to his shoulder trained on Felix, while Grif was reloading a shotgun.

“You heard the man!” Simmons yelled almost hoarsely. “Let Tucker go, Felix!”

“Hey, or don’t!” Grif joined in, aiming his freshly loaded weapon at Felix’s head. “I’d love to shoot the fuck out of you. “Do you know how long I went without a mess hall? Without _real food?_ And then you go and collapse half a building on the best one in the city? Who the fuck do you think you are!?”

“Also, you’re a war criminal and we’re going to take you to the proper authorities!” Simmons continued, losing an astounding amount of confidence between each phrase. “So, uh, _suck it!_ Uh. _Mercenary!”_

“Guys,” Tucker gasped out. “Just. Just shoot him. It’ll be better in the long run. For everyone. Just get it done.”

“But the court?” Simmons asked, fully distracted at that point. 

“I don’t know, Simmons,” Grif said, taking full aim. “I like how Tucker’s thinking. Personal revenge might be on the menu.”

“Neither of you are going to dare to shoot me as long as your stupid, over confident friend is in the way,” Felix said assuredly, yanking Tucker more by his arms. “Neither of you have a good angle to make sure you get me without getting him either -- especially with a goddamn _rocket launcher_ and _buckshot spray.”_

“Why did we grab these again?” Grif asked, looking to Simmons.

“I don’t know! Mine’s a signature weapon. Yours is speaking to some serious father issues we apparently need to deal with after this is all said and done.”

“He’s not my father!”

“Shut up, both of you!” Felix screamed out, nearly sounding hysterical. He ragdolled Tucker, making the Sim Trooper’s already blurry vision swim again before coming into focus as Felix guided Tucker’s own hand to hold his sword at his throat. “I don’t know how any of you manage to survive being as goddamn stupid as you all are, but I’m ending it all now. There’s no winning for you idiot Sim Troopers. There’s no luck. And even if it’s just me, even if it’s for _nothing_ at this point but self-satisfaction, I’m going to take as _much_ of this miserable rock with me as I can!”

“No,” a familiar voice rang out from behind just before a single shot was fired. “You won’t.”

Felix fell into Tucker who could barely afford to support his own weight, tearing them both to the ground. Tucker’s brain was able to think fast enough to turn off the blade, but not before nicking the kevlar over his neck. It was close, but _definitely_ could have been closer.

His brain functioned at enough capacity to kick off the mercenary after landing, and to look to the approaching soldier.

Not that Tucker needed confirmation on who it was. He managed to give her his best thumb’s up as he closed his eyes. “Got’em, Kimball,” he said softly as he felt the general kneel by him. 

“ _We_ did, Captain,” she replied softly back.

Tucker couldn’t think of anything better to fall unconscious to. 

* * *

Wash was given the honor of flying them back into the atmosphere and guide the Pelican toward the city they had deigned as home for two years. It wasn’t exactly normal for Carolina to relinquish vehicle control to someone who wasn’t designated “team pilot” beforehand, but Wash had a rising suspicion that her new passenger was far more of a handful than she was initially letting on. 

It was a concern he was going to bring up with her later -- when the Reds weren’t sobbing over each other in the cockpit and Wash didn’t have the very pressing concerns for his own soldiers nearly blinding him to all else.

His grip on the wheel tightened a bit at the thought of Caboose and Tucker and he flew in a little faster, only easing up when he noticed the way Carolina’s head tilted. 

Even without saying a word she was a backseat driver. Wash found that incredibly impressive. 

They were quiet, basking in victory which was, to be frank, not something they were all that used to. Sarge and Donut babbled enough as background noise to not make the return trip feel overly alienating. 

It just felt _good_ at the end of the day. 

“What kind of beer do you want for me to get that story out of you?” Carolina asked finally, actually going so far as to start unlatching her helmet. 

Wash looked at her for a moment, watched her take the helmet off and felt like it was done. It was over. Things were _good._ Mission accomplished. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he responded with a small laugh, returning to looking ahead. 

“Oh, so we’re _begging_ for beers now?” she snorted.

“It’s been a very stressful couple of years,” he admitted freely. “I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

“It’s been a very stressful life,” Carolina huffed. She hesitated, eyes looking off to the right, though nothing appeared there that Wash could see. “Yes, Epsilon. That statement is more true for some of us than others. I didn’t forget.”

“Stress and anxiety aren’t a competition,” Wash couldn’t help but point out, a statement apparently so egregious that Epsilon bothered to project his tiny self and give Washington a very explicit hand gesture before flickering back out. “Should he be wasting energy doing that?”

“Probably not,” Carolina responded coolly, her attention elsewhere. 

And, most likely, on just what Wash was beginning to lean forward to see for himself as well. 

“Is that... Armonia?” Wash asked, noticing how even the Reds had grown quiet as they approached.

“Hey,” Donut piped up, leaning over Wash’s shoulder. “Why’s it so dark? And smokey.”

“Obviously because the lights are out, Donut!” Sarge gruffed. “And as there is probably no radio communication without working power, someone -- probably the only person in the galaxy to have read the Red Team Official Handbook, so Simmons -- is attempting to reach us through an elaborate set of smoke signals.”

“Cristo,” Lopez muttered.

“Simmons lit a whole building on fire in order to make smoke signals?” Donut asked. “That’s hardcore. Even for Simmons.”

“That’s not just a random building,” Carolina said, a little breathless. She turned her head toward Wash. “That’s the command building. Wash! You said you stopped the canon!”

“I _did!”_ Wash responded. “I mean, it started up and everything, but it never fired--” His heart sank. “Oh god. The canon! It was magnetic -- it must have sent out some preemptive pulse toward its target. It knocked the power grid out and... Tucker...”

Before anyone could begin to speak up, Wash harshly jerked them into descent, flinging all of Red Team to the front of the cockpit. Carolina even had to grab a hold of the console to keep from smacking it. She quickly turned her head to glare at him.

“Wash--”

Almost instinctively, Wash threw on all the controls to begin automatic landing on the first building with a large enough roof, unstrapped himself from the pilot’s chair, and headed toward the exit.

It was almost unsurprising when he saw Carolina in hot pursuit. 

“Keep me updated here, Washington, what’s going on in that brain of yours,” Carolina said fiercely, not even budging beyond putting on her helmet again as the landing rather roughly began. 

“The MAC would have turned off all electronic power in the surrounding targeted area,” Wash said, his heart pounding. “When we left, I left Tucker in the command building with... with Felix in the prison hold. And now the building’s almost flattened.

Carolina visibly flinched, a blue spark appearing by her shoulder for an instant and then gone again. But she loaded her guns as the exit door dropped and she nodded to him. 

“Alright, let’s go--”

“And what about us?” Donut spoke up, walking briskly toward them. “We got rid of one merc! How about we help you take down this one--”

“You didn’t take him down, Donut, he was waiting for us in the launch bay,” Wash reminded him.

“Yes but his morale was so broken that for our purposes he was as good as dead,” Sarge spoke up. “Red Team took down a merc. Now you’re trying to take down a merc. Don’t think I can’t see this for what it really is, Agent Washington: you’re trying to play catch up for Blue Team!”

Carolina and York stared at Sarge for a good long moment before she turned to Wash and, very seriously, said, “I could lock the door behind us.”

“No, they’d find a way to crash it in park,” Wash sighed. “Listen, Sarge, Donut, Lopez --”

_No te olvides de F.I.L.S.S._

“... sure,” Wash responded to the white glow by Lopez. “You all should canvas this area, try to figure out what’s going on. I don’t hear gunfire or anything, but apparently only our radios are able to transmit and receive right now. Contact us with any information you have. Carolina and I are heading straight to the fire. We’ll do the same.”

Donut and Sarge looked at each other then back. 

“Um, you Freelancers are going to keep us in the loop?” Donut asked, head cocked to the side. “Not to be a Negative Nancy, but you guys are _really_ bad at doing that.”

“We’ll try but no promises,” Carolina stated definitely. “Alright enough is enough. Let’s get a look at what’s going on.”

Wash wished with everything in him that the very idea of that didn’t fill him with dread.

*

It was hard to get a real hold on the atmosphere around the capital. Even from the perspective that he and Carolina were moving in stealth and not exactly sticking around to ask questions on their way toward the city’s central structure, there was still plenty to notice from afar.

What scarce population _was_ left in the city were fairly clueless -- gathered in groups and standing around. Some in armor, some not. Some with weapons ready, some standing around scratching their heads. 

The drill sargeant in Wash almost wanted to stop and scream at the men to get in _some_ semblance of a position. 

However, the closer they were to the building, the more order began to pick up once more, to the point that he could even hear familiar voices, including one he had hoped left the city hours beforehand. 

“Careful -- _I said careful!_ \-- Palomo, I told you to sit down -- Andersmith, lead the medics to the surgery room, absolutely no more surprises--”

Wash and Carolina both slowed to a stop a few feet from the panicked gathering of soldiers, managing not so much to wade through them but rather like they parted the sea as everyone realized just who they were.

Doctor Grey spun around on her heels before either Freelancer even had time to speak up. Wash tried not to flinch at the way the woman was splattered with blood and soot. To be fair to her, it wasn’t all that different from other times Wash had seen her at work.

She blinked at them. “My goodness! Agent Carolina! Washington! You’re back. That must mean everything went well in space.”

“According to Epsilon, it won’t be long before a rescue is mounted by the UNSC given his message,” Carolina said thickly. “What happened while we were gone--”

Wash didn’t have the patience to wade through Grey’s story and began to look around for himself -- his eyes almost immediately falling upon the gurney and medics surrounding it -- the banged up looking Palomo half out of burned out armor, still trying to hang by it even as Andersmith gently forced him to sit back down. 

“Tucker!” Wash cried out, pushing past everyone to get by the gurney, his stomach doing somersaults as he looked over his soldier. 

The majority of Tucker’s armor hadn’t been removed yet -- it was ashen black, chipped, scorched, and generally banged in around his frame -- but what had been removed showed that no matter what amount of damage had been absorbed, Tucker still got a beating inside the armor. His face was bloodied up and swollen, but he still managed to open an eye and groan. 

“I wanted to be knocked out before you got here,” Tucker muttered. “Don’t wanna deal with bitching...”

Wash threw up his arms. “What happened!? I was gone for only a couple of hours!! Literally. Like two of them!”

Tucker let out a low sigh. “Like this. ‘Swat I meant.”

“Did you blow up a building with you inside of it?” Wash demanded, feeling slightly hysterical. “Because it looks to me like you blew up a building with you inside of it.”

“He was taking down Felix,” Kimball spoke up, stepping up from the crowd Wash had barely even processed before zoning in on Tucker. “And protecting his lieutenant in the explosion.”

Wash stared at Tucker. “This is still reckless...” He looked more to Kimball. “Um. Did it work?”

“Kind of. Set me up for a hell of a shot,” Kimball responded. 

“I loosened it for her,” Tucker mumbled incoherently. 

For a moment, Wash could only hear his own heart pounding as he looked Tucker over. He placed a hand softly on the gurney and looked worriedly to everyone around. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He is going to have a few wonderful morphine-filled nights of recovery and a few scars, but I’m learning that it is _much_ more difficult to keep you Project Freelancer soldiers down than an average patient,” Doctor Grey responded. “Now, if everyone would be so kind as to _get out of the way so we can get to the hospital!!!_ that would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Wash didn’t move even as the others did. “Doctor Grey... what about Caboose?”

“I have very good people -- best of my staff -- at Outpost 37 along with the rest of our patients from the evacuation,” she said as she motioned for the other medics and Andersmith to push the gurney off without her. She squared up with Wash, putting a kind hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be with him as soon as I’m done getting Tucker out of that nasty armor and patched up. Don’t worry, Agent Washington. I will make sure your soldiers are given _the best!”_

Feeling a bit weak in the knees at the mere reminder of Blue Team’s state, Wash just managed a nod. “Thank you, Doctor Grey,” he managed, watching as the good doctor took off toward the hospital with the others. 

Carolina massaged the corners of her head, never talking out loud in doing so, but Wash could easily assume that he wasn’t the only Blue Team leader concerned for the others. She then straightened up and looked seriously to Kimball. 

“General Kimball, how certain are we that Felix is dealt with?” Carolina asked.

“We have a body,” Kimball responded point blank. “With a few holes in it. Pretty damn sure.” 

“That’s the best news we’ve gotten since this started,” Carolina sighed. 

Both Freelancers stiffened slightly as their radios signaled, then automatically reached for their earpieces. 

“Found all of Red Team,” Sarge announced. “Still all in one piece. Gotta say, if I ever need to assert my authority again, I apparently should just almost die. It’s done wonders for reminding everyone how much I’m needed on Red Team!”

“No, no more almost deaths,” Wash said firmly. “I think we’ll all appreciate each other more than enough now.”

He looked up as he felt Carolina’s hand connect with his shoulder. “Do you want to go see Caboose, or do you want to stay with Tucker first?” she asked.

Wash gave Carolina a look he sincerely hoped portrayed his appreciation of the sentiment. He thought for a moment before slowly nodding at his own reasoning. “You and Epsilon go to Caboose first. I’ll watch the surgery -- Caboose could use a visit from Church to cheer him up until we can manage to get all of Blue Team together again. Tucker... Tucker needs to be scolded for excessive use of self-inflicted harm. His plans are too dangerous for himself.”

Carolina snorted. “And he’s going to get that lecture from _you?_ Alright then,” she laughed. “We’ll cheer up Caboose and radio in a bit. Whenever we figure out how we’re reuniting everyone on Chorus.”

“I don’t know if we need to worry about that,” Wash said, jerking his head to draw Carolina to the site behind her.

The aqua marine turned, shoulders relaxing a bit in surprise. There was a line of soldiers -- mostly Fed armor -- approaching Kimball and receiving orders, asking for advice and suggestions, and the general was easily assigning duties -- trying to get the power on, trying to get the radios working, trying to string their planet’s people back together one by one. And it was working.

“I’ll be damned,” Carolina breathed in relief. 

“We did something,” Wash mumbled.

“ _Chorus_ did something for itself, which is even better,” Carolina corrected him.

Wash nodded. “But we blew up a lot of things to help.”

“That we did,” Carolina agreed, offering up a fist. Wash gladly bumped it. “That we did.”

* * *

Marching orders were far from the most fun to fulfill, but Bitters never found them easier than getting the radio feed from Kimball that ordered for him and the rest to lead the charge back home. Back to Armonia. Back to somewhere where sleep and food and appliances were actually a _thing_ again. 

He had no idea how such a feeling of relief could wash over him after only a few days gone, but there he was, facing the walls of the capital again. He thought that it must have been the feeling of victory everyone had been so worked up about before. 

Entering the gates also came with a bit of a loss -- what could they possibly be expected to do once there. Were assignments still the same? Were armies still divided? 

Communication was still difficult, and that was at least part of the reason that he found himself just absolutely stunned when he was hit with a running hug right below the level of his chest. It nearly knocked the air out of him.

“Katie?” he coughed when he managed to find his footing once more.

“Oh my gosh, Antoine!!!” Jensen breathed against him. 

For the first time in what felt like days, Bitters dropped his tense shoulders and happily stroked his squadmate’s head. “I figured you guys would be okay,” he sighed. 

She punched his shoulder but it was all in good fun -- her eyes were bright and joyful. 

Bitters looked up, taken aback slightly by the sight of Andersmith all but holding up a bandaged up and bruised Palomo. It felt like a punch to Bitters’ own gut to see their youthful squadmate so beat up. 

“What _happened?”_ he asked. “Did we actually go with the plan to use Palomo as a meat shield or...”

“I helped beat Felix!” Palomo burst out excitedly. “A-and Captain Tucker saved me from an explosion. _Captain Tucker was_ my _meat shield, Bitters!_ I think I’ve reached legendary status.”

“Palomo played the part of a punching bag for his adventure,” Andersmith explained more eloquently. 

“That makes sense,” Bitters laughed. “I... Well, I survived Kimball and me being basically the only News in an entire squadron. It was fun. Wouldn’t do it again.”

“Federal Army is not that bad,” a thick voice spoke up from behind Palomo and Andersmith. 

Bitters looked around them to see, what else, a Fed on the other end of that interjection. He felt himself give a long sigh at the revelation. But Jensen was quick to elbow Bitters for it. 

“Antoine, this is Aleksandr,” she said, walking over to the big guy and looping arms with him. “He’s going to be working with us from now on.”

Raising a brow, Bitters looked to Palomo only to find the little guy giving a solid nod at the announcement. “He’s a cool dude,” he asserted.

“Eh... John?” Bitters looked to their leader for a bone.

Andersmith shrugged. “We have the honor of being part of General Kimball and Doctor Grey’s first initiative with the New Army of Chorus,” he reported. “Our teams will be pulling resources and squads together in a new, united front as we rebuild the city and Chorus overall.”

“Kimball initiated this?” Bitters asked suspiciously.

“Yes,” Andersmith responded. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Bitters replied, feeling a bit of a smile tug at his lips. “I think I’d follow Kimball’s orders anywhere.”

* * *

Carolina tried not to act like it, but one of the problems with sharing a brain with someone was that they always could tell when something was wrong. Deep down, Epsilon knew that Carolina felt the same about him and the carefully constructed lies in his own head full of zeroes and ones.

“How bad is the degeneration?” she asked carefully. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“ _Epsilon,”_ her warning voice rumbled low, fraught with concern even beneath that typical family anger. 

“I have a chance at making it if F.I.L.S.S. transferred files are as intensive as she claimed they were on the cruiser,” he said simply. “I mean. I’m not going to be half the AI fragment I used to be. More like -- hold on lemme count one, two... -- one eighth. But I mean. I’ll still be fun to talk to.”

Carolina grew quiet, reflecting on the news. “The sooner we do that the better, though, right?” she asked. 

“Right,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Which means you better get to Caboose pretty soon because there’s no way I’m going to even _start_ that process until we’ve visited Caboose, C.”

She looked at him for a moment. If Epsilon had been anyone else in the world, he might have missed the soft fondness that fell on her features as she looked him over. 

“When did you get so loyal to your friends?” she asked with a laugh.

“Hey, they’re our family, Sis,” he said with a shrug. “They’re everything we have.”

“Yeah, they are,” she agreed, nodding to a nearby soldier as they stiffened up and saluted. She reached for a cube, tossed it a bit and looked to him. “Do you want to do the honors, Epsilon? I have the coordinates to Caboose and the others--”

He flickered, feeling an artificial swelling of his chest. “Already done did them, C.”

“Alright, you big dork,” she snorted, giving the cube a toss. “Let’s reunite you with your best friend.”

“Hey, _one_ of,” he corrected just be for the blankness of the flair. 

For a moment, Epsilon became concerned that he overestimated his capacity to travel, that though his synthetic body hadn’t been effected by transport before he pushed the limits too far, when slowly everything began to fade into alignment. 

He heard Carolina talking smoothly to a few people, could make out what looked like an army barracks repurposed with medical equipment, then could see the big guy he always managed to underestimate how much he missed. 

When he projected his spark, Epsilon wasn’t expecting for the bandaged up giant to rise up, stiff as a board, from his hospital bed and nearly take every piece of IV and ECG equipment with him. 

Caboose’s heart monitor spiked, but the soldier’s face lit up to match his shiny eyes. 

“That’s the first time he’s had color in his cheeks since we got here,” a nurse muttered just loud enough for Epsilon to hear. 

He didn’t care, though, because Caboose’s eyes were full of tears and his grin was from ear to ear. “Church!” he cried out. “You came back!” 

“Always do, buddy,” Epsilon said softly. “Isn’t that what I always promise?”

“You’re even tinier,” Caboose mumbled, leaning forward enough to poke through the projected spark. 

“Okay, you’re pushing the affection, dude.”

“His ego’s still fragile, Caboose, just ignore him,” Carolina laughed, not even acknowledging that each missed poke met her shoulder. 

“I will need even tinier crackers,” Caboose announced very seriously. 

And Epsilon felt himself really _laugh_ for the first time in his own voice. It sounded good. 

*

By the time Caboose has chilled out enough to go back to sleep, by the time Epsilon will let Carolina leave his side, there’s a different Armonia waiting for them on the other side of the teleportation cube. 

There’s power again, and the survivors and returning ranks are bustling through the city, trying to put out fires and set their world back in working order, but it’s something more than that. And it’s not until the medical crews start pouring through a shoddily constructed teleporter headed by this mysterious enigma of Santa that Epsilon really started to feel he could grasp the situation for what it was.

There really didn’t seem to be sides of an entirely other war anymore. There just seemed to be people, and the need to put back together their home.

And that hadn’t really been more apparent than seeing Doctor Grey and General Kimball approaching Carolina. 

“Tucker?” Epsilon asked, daring to spark over Carolina’s shoulder.

“Doing well, but out like a light!” Grey informed them happily. “You’ve got quite a few hours before he’s up and complaining. Probably enough for you to put yourself together again!”

Kimball nodded sagely. “When the generators came back online, we were able to hook up Lopez and this F.I.L.S.S. AI. She told us you would need our system to start some sort of regeneration process,” she said almost softly. “Considering how much Doctor Grey and I will have to talk over our plans, I figured there was no better time to get you all hooked up than the present. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, probably,” Epsilon responded. “Gotta get those zeroes and ones back in the right order. It’s killer how big a difference one in the wrong place can do.”

Kimball’s face actually grew fond for a moment, her head tilting slightly. “I think we know you’re more than some numbers, Epsilon.”

Epsilon processed the statement a few times, rolled it over in his slowly frying mind, and felt strangely endeared to the sentiment. “That means a lot, General Kimball,” he settled on in a small, quiet voice.

“Show me to the computers,” Carolina responded finally. “He likes acting tough, but I know how much he needs this.”

“Right this way,” Kimball said, turning and leading the Freelancer toward the hospital in a very much appreciated brisk pace. 

“I can’t thank you enough, General,” Carolina continued, relief beginning to creep into her voice. “Epsilon... Epsilon means a lot to me. To all of us.”

“I’m learning more why every day, Agent Carolina,” Kimball responded in kind. “Sincerely, though, you and your men have done so much for us... we could never properly thank you on behalf of Chorus. Saving the people who tried to die on our behalves seems like the smallest, simplest returned favor possible.”

“It kind of is,” Epsilon couldn’t help but interject.

“Epsilon,” Carolina snorted. “Behave. More importantly, stop wasting the energy you have on misbehaving.”

“Eh, it’s what I do,” Epsilon responded, feeling a cool relief as they were led into a computer room. 

F.I.L.S.S.’ familiar avatar filled every screen. 

_Greetings, Director. Agent Carolina. I do hope that everything is going well._

“Besides dying, I’d say everyone’s gotten along pretty peachy, F.I.L.S.S., thanks for the concern,” Epsilon snorted. 

“Can you make the jump?” Carolina asked seriously.

“Sure, mild difficulty aside,” he responded. Still, he hesitated, looking the room over. There was a huge chance that this wasn’t going to work. Or, more than that, he wouldn’t be the same Epsilon coming back. “Sis... would you... are you going to...”

“I’m waiting right here, no matter how long it takes,” Carolina responded gently. “So keep that in mind if you get caught up on minor details. You’ve got a whole lot of people waiting on you to come out healthy and happy.”

“I’m a Church, are we ever happy?”

“Epsilon. I’m serious.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, C. You’re good. Wash is good. Caboose. Tucker. The Reds. I’ve got a lot to keep me happy. Still. Y’know. If I _do_ decide to not come out, don’t force it--”

“Epsilon.”

“No morbid joking until afterwards, got it,” he said before taking one leap forward.

* * *

It was looking like a very good day. Even Doc did not seem so scary (his laugh was, though). And Doctor Grey smiled at him and gave him a hug after a check up. He was going to get to go home -- not to the moon, but to the home was kind of just as great. The one with Church and Tucker and Agent Washington and Carolina and the Reds. 

And when he got there, Agent Washington was there and gave him a big strong hug. 

Tucker was sick, but Caboose thought that it was probably not that bad. Tucker was always trying to take Caboose’s attention. Which wasn’t a smart thing to do anymore because Caboose knew Santa now and he might not take back some of the things he would write to Santa about. 

Church was away in a computer, but Agent Carolina seemed to think he was okay. Caboose would have waited on him, but she was already waiting. And took the only seat. Lopez was there, too, but Caboose really wasn’t sure why.

He wasn’t supposed to be walking around, but he wasn’t going to lay there like _some_ people when it had been so long since they got to say hello or even goodbye to everyone. And as long as Agent Washington was with him, Doctor Grey seemed happy. She was a _really_ busy lady and Agent Washington made it sound like she was going to be even busier in the next little bit. 

Agent Washington really wanted to get back to Tucker. Get Blue Team all together, but Tucker sleeping was really boring, Caboose was sure they wouldn’t miss out on much if he found other people first. 

Doc stuck with them until they saw the Reds minus Lopez. Sarge greeted Caboose with a punch in the arm (Agent Washington _really_ didn’t like that) and he seemed really happy. He was even showing off his shotgun -- he said it’d helped stop the mean Felix, which was weird because unless that gun was like Freckles, Caboose wasn’t really sure how it was supposed to be the one who shot Felix if Sarge wasn’t shooting it? 

The Reds were kind of silly like that. 

Grif was in a wheelchair complaining about his leg, and Simmons was right by him, complaining about _his_ leg being complained about. Caboose wondered if it was a joke he wasn’t in on. 

Doc and Donut hugged when they saw each other, and Doc didn’t even sound like the O’Malley guy anymore. Then they took off their helmets. Then they did stuff. 

Agent Washington turned him around, though, Caboose didn’t know what happened. 

The Reds were happy, at least that was what Caboose took out of it. They were all together and all loud and all complaining. They were kind of like Blues that way -- and not at all like the color. Obviously.

After that, Agent Washington was concerned about business with General Kimball and Doctor Grey. Caboose wasn’t sure why, but he remembered that Tex and Sister weren’t supposed to get along because they were girls so maybe that was it. So Wash took Caboose back to the hospital, and this time he left him with the lieutenants. Which was _way_ better than being left with sleeping, boring Tucker any day. 

Smith -- probably because he was Caboose’s favorite -- immediately came over and gave Caboose the biggest hug he’d gotten since Chorus. It was bigger than the one Agent Washington gave the first time Church left with Carolina. 

Palomo was hurt, but unlike Tucker he was bright and talkative, telling Caboose about all that had happened since they left Caboose with Doc -- about Felix and Tucker and the explosions. He told it so well that Caboose reconsidered telling stories to Santa about Tucker. Tucker had a good reason to sleep after all. 

Bitters was sleeping in a corner chair like he hadn’t rest in days, and Golov was quiet, though he smiled and told Caboose he was happy he felt better. He wasn’t such a bad guy, Caboose could see why Tucker liked him. 

Jensen popped up on a computer screen to greet him, told them all that Kimball and Grey had her working on radios big enough to talk to the UNSC when they got there. Caboose thought that had to be a pretty big radio -- bigger than any he’d know what to do with. 

But it wasn’t long before Caboose decided to leave the lieutenants. He wasn’t bored, but he felt bad. So he sat with Tucker. It’s where Agent Washington found him. And it’s where he was when Agent Carolina radioed him directly.

“I’m going to have scars here,” Caboose continued, pointing to his stomach, still all covered in bandages. “Aaaand here,” he continued, pointing at his back, but it hurt more so he didn’t touch it. “Oh, and Tucker’s got a lot. But I don’t know where. He’s a mummy right now. Agent Washington says to not say that. Do you think he’s scared of mummies?”

“I don’t know,” Church said back, his tiny hologram sitting in the air right before Caboose. “I would be. They probably stink.”

“Yeah, I’d say if you put someone in a box for a really long time and don’t give them new underwears, it’d be stinky,” Caboose nodded. “Maybe we should tell them to change Tucker’s underwear.”

“Tucker doesn’t wear underwear.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s right.” Caboose sat back, truly thinking about it for a moment, before he sat back up, head to the side. “Is that why Tucker smells funny.”

“No, that’s his cologne. Alpha’s told him since Blood Gulch to not...” Church stopped for a bit, his tiny baby face frowning. “Anyway. It’s too much. That’s why he smells funny.”

“Oh, okay, then,” Caboose responded readily. He felt tired even as he leaned back against the wall. It only made his eyes heavier. 

“You look really tired, buddy,” Church said softly. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“I want to be awake to tell everyone how happy I am to see them,” Caboose announced. “But I _am_ pretty tired. I might nap in between.”

“I think that’s a good idea. You’ve already done a lot today.”

“So did you!” Caboose whined. “You saved a planet.”

“We all saved a planet. I just, y’know, carried most of the weight. As usual,” Church snarked. 

“Yeah,” Caboose yawned. “Hey, Church? Can I ask you something? Why do you sound so different?” 

If possible, the hologram of the teenage-ish boy went stock still -- like a movie on pause -- then disappeared into a small blue spark. There was a mechanical whine from the machines around them, then the spark picked up a glow as it spoke, “Is it that bad?”

“I don’t think it’s bad, I think it’s different,” Caboose said honestly. “You’re still my best friend.”

The little avatar returned, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Really?”

“If you want to be,” Caboose nodded, yawning. “Okay. Sorry, Church, I’ll tell you more stories later. I’m going to go to bed,” he announced, achingly rising from the floor.

“Oh. O-okay, Caboose! Uh. Be careful. And stuff,” Church called after him.

Caboose stopped for a moment, looking in the hallway and seeing Agent Carolina waiting just outside the room’s door. She had a sad, soft smile. She looked tired. 

“Hello, Agent Carolina,” Caboose greeted with a lion’s yawn. “Are Agent Washington and Tucker still in the same room?”

“They are, Caboose,” she responded gently. “Are you all done in there with Epsilon?”

“Yeah, we’re going to tell more stories later,” Caboose explained. He stopped, a little quiet as he reflected on everything. When he met Carolina’s gaze again, he tried to give her a very serious look. “Agent Carolina?”

“Yes, Caboose?“ she asked almost curiously.

“I was thinking, you know Church. Church talks loud and stuff, and acts like he doesn’t care. And shouts at people. And says he doesn’t like people. But he really cares what people think a lot,” Caboose explained as eloquently as he could. “And he cares about me a lot. But he cares a lot about you, too. And I was just hoping... well, Agent Carolina, do you love Church a lot?” 

Her expression was mostly neutral as she followed him, but with the question she almost looked confused. “I’m not in love with Epsilon, Caboose,” she said firmly.

“No, I know. I mean... aren’t we a family?” he tried again. “And we love each other. And you and Wash are like the mommy and daddy. And Church is my best big brother in the world. And then Tucker’s in boarding school.”

Carolina stopped for a moment, then honest to god laughed, even going so far as to snort. “Yes, Caboose,” she agreed. “We’re a family. I love Epsilon as family. You, too. Now get to bed.”

“Okay, good,” Caboose sighed with relief before heading out. 

He could hear Carolina asking Church if he was ready for something. But it didn’t really matter. Caboose was too tired and feeling too happy to get caught up on it. 

* * *

Epsilon was a different presence in her mind by that point. There was no getting around that. Different, though, wasn’t bad. It was like Caboose had said when he was comforting their favorite AI. 

And it was true. Epsilon was, after all, her brother. 

“Are you ready?” she asked him softly as she entered the room, hardly able to contain her smile at the familiar and expected warmth crawling through her implants again. 

“Hell yeah,” he responded. 

“Should I be concerned with such language from a child?” she asked as she started toward the hall again.

“Don’t be a jerk,” he messaged back, tongue flickering in his hologram. 

The small amusement was enough to hold her over as she continued down the hall, found herself a little surprised by who was waiting on her. Wash was tired and bruised, but standing in full attention before joining her side on their stroll.

“Tucker alright?” she asked Wash. 

“He’ll be sore for a while, so I guess I can’t make him run the obstacle course,” Wash joked. “But, yeah. He’ll be okay. I saw Caboose on his way toward the room and figured since I’m the missing link in this little exposition I might as well as show up.”

“Let Reds and Blues rest a bit?”

“ _Blues_ and _Reds,_ ” both Epsilon and Washington corrected.

“Oh my god, the insanity never stops,” Carolina moaned in faux annoyance. 

“It’s alphabetical,” Wash defended.

“And by order of _most ass kicked,”_ Epsilon added.

Washington blinked a bit, pointing toward Epsilon’s hologram. “Is he... um.”

“Babyish?” Carolina asked, ignoring Epsilon’s groan.

“I was going to say more youthful, but sure,” Wash chuckled. He then cocked his head to the side a bit. “You look good, Epsilon.”

“Oh, don’t try to butter me up. Just introduce me to your new computer friend, Wash.”

“I think we’re all rather interested in meeting this friend.”

They looked up to see the new leaders of Chorus standing by the makeshift transporter constructed for the patients earlier. Kimball and Grey don’t seem overly friendly, but the apprehension between a Fed and a New was far from the dire dread that filled the room just days before, when Carolina thought sticking closer to Kimball’s side among her Federal soldiers would cause her to rip out all her hair. It was progress. It was, truly, a little _Blue_ and _Red.  
_

“With this AI, you really believe that we can recover hundreds from the war? People we thought were dead?” Kimball asked seriously, arms crossed uncertainly. 

“Yes,” Wash said with a nod. “It’ll take some time, bringing back small groups so that we can reorient them, make sure no one’s going to still be fighting the civil war before we can get us all on the same page. But I’ve been assured that each of them should be fine.” He looked more to Doctor Grey. “Including our friends from Outpost Thirty-seven.”

She smiled softly in return. “Then I say, our first order of business, as the New Army of Chorus, is to start bringing our soldiers home.”

“Our _people_ home,” Kimball agreed with a nod. “Unite us before the UNSC even gets here.”

Carolina noticed the way Kimball -- so much younger than Carolina had ever realized -- looked to her for some encouragement. Epsilon and Carolina both nodded to her, chests filling a bit with pride at how far they had seen the general come. 

“Alright then!” Grey said excitedly, hands rubbing together. “Let’s bring this to an end.”

“Good, that’s all settled,” Wash said, looking to the transporter. “Come on out, Santa.”


End file.
